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TELL ME MY LITTLE MAN WHERE YOU SAW THE 1SK1TISH UNIFORM. 


WONDER STORIES 

OF 

HISTORY 


BY 

MRS. FRANCES A. IfUMFIIREY, MRS. SARAH 
K. BOLTON, SUSAN FENIMORE COOPER, 
REV. I. L. BEMAN, AND OTHERS 


3Hlu0tratrti 



'BOSTON 

D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY 

3a Franklin Street 


Copyright, 18S6, 
by 

1 ). LOTHROP & COMPAN 


AUNT POLLY SHEDD’S 
BRIGADE. 



OMETHING about the Battle of Hampden ? ” 


v — 7 Grandma took off her spectacles and wiped 
them reflectively. “ It seems to me already I have 
told you everything worth telling ; but there ! ” in 
a sudden burst of recollection, “ did I ever tell 
you about Aunt Polly Shedd’s Brigade ? That 
was quite an affair to those of us that belonged to 


it! ” 


“ Oh, no ! do tell us about it ! ” called out the 
three childish voices in chorus ; and grandma 
only waited to knit by the seam needle. 

“ I’ve told you all about it so many times that I 
don’t need to describe again that dreadful morn- 
ing when the British man-of-war came up the river 
and, dropping her anchor just opposite our little 
village of Hampden, sent troops ashore to take 


AUNT POLLY SHEDD’S BRIGADE. 


possession of the place in the King’s name. So 
what I am going to tell you now is how, and where, 
we youngsters spent the three days that the British 
occupied our houses. I was about twelve years 
old at the time. I remember that it was just as 
we were getting up from the breakfast-table that 
one of our neighbors, Sol Grant, old General 
Grant’s youngest son, rushed in without knocking, 
his face as white as a sheet, and his cap on hind- 
side before, and called out hurriedly : 

“ ‘ Mr. Swett, if you love your family, for God’s 
sake find a place of safety for ’em ! The British 
are coming ashore — three boat-loads of ’em, 
armed to the teeth — and they won’t spare man, 
woman nor child.’ 

“ Mother’s face grew very pale, but she stepped 
quietly around, with her baby on her arm, close to 
where father was standing, and laid one hand on 
his arm, while she said, in a firm, clear voice : 

“ ‘ My place is with you, Benjamin, but we must 
think of some place of safety for the children. 
Where can they go ? ’ 

“ Sol was just rushing out of the door as uncere- 


AUNT POLLY SHEDD’S BRIGADE. 


moniously as he had rushed in, but he stopped 
when he heard her ask that, long enough to say : 

“‘I forgot to tell you that Aunt Polly Shedd will 
take all the children put in her charge out to Old 
Gubtil’s ; that’s so out of the way they won’t be 
disturbed, ’specially as the old man’s a tory him- 
self.’ 

“ Mother kissed us all round, with a smile on her 
face that couldn’t quite hide the tears with which 
her dear eyes were filled, and as she hastily bun- 
dled us in whatever garment came to hand, she 
bade us be good children, and make aunt Polly 
and the Gubtils as little trouble as possible. Then 
we followed father out-of-doors and into the school- 
house yard where a score or more of children were 
already gathered — still as mice for intense terror. 
Aunt Polly, in her big green calash, and a pillow- 
case of valuables under one arm, was bustling to 
and fro, speaking an encouraging or admonitory 
word, as the case might be, and wearing upon her 
pinched, freckled little face such a reassuring smile 
that T soon felt my own courage rise and, dashing 
back the tears that had filled my eyes a moment 


AUNT POLLY SHEDD'S BRIGADE. 


before, I busied' myself in pinning little Sally’s 
blanket more closely about her neck and setting 
the faded sunbonnet upon the tangled curls that 
had not yet had their customary morning’s dressing. 

“ ‘ Come, children,’ called out aunt Polly cheer- 
ily, ‘ you’re all here now, and we’ll start right off. 
I’ll go ahead, an’ all you little ones had best keep 
close to me ; the bigger ones can come along be- 
hind.’ 

“ Obedient to her order we started, following her 
steps across the road by the beeches, and up by 
the grocery store where a crowd of excited men 
were congregated, talking loudly with wild gestic- 
ulations, while farther down, toward the shore, we 
could catch glimpses, through the thick morning 
fog, of the blue uniforms of our militia company 
that had been summoned in hot haste to defend the 
town. As we filed past, I remember I heard one 
of the men on the grocery steps speak : 

“ ‘ I tell you they won’t leave one stone on an- 
other jf they get possession of the town, and they’ll 
impress all the able-bodied men and all the big 
boys into the King’s service besides.’ 


AUNT POLLY SHEDD’S BRIGADE. 


“ A cold shiver ran over me and I caught so 
hard at little Sally’s hand that the child cried out 
with pain, and aunt Polly said anxiously : 

“ ‘ Hurry up, dears ! ’tain’t much more’n a mile 
out to Gubtil’s, and you’ll have a good nice chance 
to rest after we get there.’ 

“Just then the martial music of a fife and drum 
announced the landing of the enemy’s troops, and 
I tell you it quickened the lagging footsteps of 
even the youngest child into a run, and we just 
flew, helter-skelter, over the rough, little-used road 
that led to the Gubtil farm. Aunt Polly’s gentle 
tones were unheeded. All she could do was to 
carry the weakest in her arms over all the worst 
places, with a word of cheer, now and then, to 
some child who was not too much frightened to 
heed it. 

“ What a haven of safety the low, unpainted old 
farmhouse looked to us, as we rushed, pell-mell, 
into the dooryard, never noticing, in our own re- 
lief, the ungracious scowl with which the master 
and mistress of the house regarded our advent. 

“Aunt Polly soon explained matters, taking 


AUNT POLLY SHEDD’S BRIGADE. 


care to assure the inhospitable pair that our par- 
ents would amply recompense them for the trouble 
and expense we must, of course, be to them. 

“The farmer held a whispered consultation with 
his wife, and I remember well his harsh, loud 
tones as he came back to aunt Polly : 

“ ‘ They’ll have to stay, I s’pose ; there don’t 
seem no help for it now. There’s pertaters in the 
cellar, an’ they can roast an’ eat what they want. 
I’ll give ’em salt an’ what milk an’ brown bread 
they want, an’ that’s what they’ll have to live on 
for the present. As for housin’ ’em, the boys can 
sleep on the hay in the barn, an’ the girls can 
camp down on rugs an’ comforters on the kitchen 
floor. That’s the best I can do, an’ if they ain’t 
satisfied they can go furder.’ 

“ I remember just how he looked down at the 
troubled, childish faces upturned to his own, as if 
half hoping we might conclude to wander yet 
farther away from our imperilled homes; but aunt 
Polly hastened to answer : 

“ ‘ Oh, we’ll get along nicely with milk for the 
little ones, and potatoes and salt fv^ the big boys 


AUNT POLLY SHEDD’S BRIGADE. 


and girls, and we won’t trouble you any more nor 
any longer than we can help, Mr. Gubtil.’ 

“ She stood upon the door-stone beside him as 
she spoke, a little, bent, slightly deformed figure, 
with a face shrivelled and faded like a winter-rus- 
set apple in spring-time, and a dress patched and 
darned till one scarcely could tell what the original 
was like, in a striking contrast to the tall, broad- 
shouldered, hale old man, whose iron frame had 
defied the storms of more than seventy winters; 
but I remember how he seemed to me a mere 
pigmy by the side of the generous, large-hearted 
woman whose tones and gestures had a protective- 
ness, a strength born of love and pity, that reas- 
sured us trembling little fugitives in spite of our 
ungracious reception. We felt that aunt Polly 
would take care of us, let what would come. 

“ The hours dragged slowly away. Aunt Polly 
told us that the distant firing meant that our men 
had not retreated without an effort to defend the 
village. When this firing ceased, we began to 
watch and hope that some message would come 
from our fathers and mothers. But none came. 


AUNT POLLY SHEDD’S BRIGADE. 

We wondered among our little selves if they all 
had been put to death by the British, and even the 
oldest among us shed some dreary tears. 

“ Dan Parsons, who was the biggest boy among 
us and of an adventurous turn, went in the gather- 
ing twilight gloom down as near the„village as he 
dared. He came shivering back to us with such 
tales of vague horror that our very hearts stopped 
beating while we listened. 

“ ‘ I crep’ along under the shadder of the alders 
and blackberry bushes,’ he began, ‘ ’til I got dost 
ter De’con Mileses house. ’Twas as still as death 
’round there, but jest as I turned the corner by 
the barn I see somethin’ gray a-flappin’ and a-flut- 
terin’ jest inside the barn door. I stopped, kind 
o’ wonderin’ what it could be, when all at once I 
thought I should ’a’ dropped, for it came over me 
like a flash that it might be ’ — 

“ ‘ What, what, Dan ? ’ cried a score of frightened 
voices ; and Dan replied solemnly : 

“ ‘ The old deacon's skulp ! ’ 

“ 4 Oh dear ! oh dear ! ’ sobbed the terrified 


chorus. 


AUNT POLLY SHEDD’S BRIGADE. 


“ Aunt Polly could do nothing with us ; and little 
Dolly Miles, the deacon’s granddaughter, burst 
into a series of wild lamentations that called Farmer 
Gubtil to the door to know the cause of the 
commotion. 

“ ‘ What’s all this hullabaloo about ? ’ he asked 
crossly ; and when he had heard the story he seized 
Dan and shook him till his teeth chattered. 

“ ‘ What do you mean by tellin’ such stuff an’ 
scarin’ these young ones ter death ? ’ he demanded. 

“ Dan wriggled himself from his grasp and 
looked sulkily defiant : 

“ ‘I didn’t say ’ twas that,’ he muttered. ‘ I said 
it might be, an’ p’r’aps ’twas ; or it might ’a’ been 
the deacon’s old mare switchin’ ’er tail ter keep off 
the flies. I’m sure / don’t know which ’twas. But 
girls are always a-squealin’ at nothin’.’ 

“ And with this parting fling at us tearful ones, 
Dan turned in the direction of the barn ; but I was 
too anxious to hear from father and mother to let 
him go without a word more. 4 Dan,’ I whispered 
with my hand on his arm, ‘ did you see or hear 
anything of our folks ? ’ 


AUNT POLLY SHEDD’S BRIGADE. 


“ ‘ No ! ’ was the rather grumpy reply ; ‘ after what 
I saw at the deacon’s I didn’t want ter ventur’ fui • 
der, but from there I could see ’em lightin’ fires in 
the village, an’ I don’t doubt by this time that 
most o’ the houses is in flames.’ 

“With this comforting assurance Dan went 
off to his bed upon the haymow, and I crept 
back into the house and laid my tired head 
down upon aunt Polly’s motherly lap, where, 
between my sobs, I managed to tell what Dan 
had told me. 

“ Aunt Polly laid a caressing hand upon my 
hair : “ La, child,’ said she soothingly, ‘ don’t you 
worry yourself a bit over Dan Parson’s stories. 
That boy was born to tell stories. The Britisher* 
are bad enough, but they ain’t heathen savages, 
an’ if the town has surrendered, as I calc’late it 
has, the settlers will be treated like prisoners o’ 
war. There won’t be no sculpin’ nor burnin’ o’ 
houses — no, dear. And now,’ giving me a little 
reassuring pat, ‘ you’re all tired out, an’ ought ter 
be asleep. I’ll make you up a bed on this rug 
with a cushion under your head, an’ my big plaid 


THERE WON T BE NO SCULPIN' OR BURNING DEAR 










AUNT POLLY SHEDD S BRIGADE, 


shawl over you, an’ you’ll sleep jest as sound as if 
you was ter home in your own trunclle-bed.’ 

“ Little Sally shared my rug and shawl, and 
aunt Polly, gently refusing the ungracious civility 
of the old couple, who had offered her the use of 
their spare bedroom, after seeing every little, tired 
form made as comfortable as possible with quilts 
and blankets from the farmwife’s stores, laid herself 
down upon the floor beside us, and after commend- 
ing herself and us to the God she loved and 
trusted, raised her head and spoke to us once 
more in her sweet, hopeful, quavering old tones : 

“ ‘ Good night, dears ! Go to sleep and don’t be 
a bit afraid. I shouldn’t wonder if your folks 
come for you in the morninV 

“ What comfort there was in her words ! And 
even the very little ones, who had never been away 
from their mothers a night before in their lives, 
stopped their low sobbing and nestled down to 
sleep, sure that God and aunt Polly would let no 
harm come to them. 

“ The next day passed slowly and anxiously for 
us all. From a stray traveller aunt Polly learned 


AUNT POLLY SHEDD S BRIGADE, 


that the village was still in the hands of the 
British and — what was no little comfort to us — 






' -t M 



MR. GUBTIL AND HIS ACCOUNT-BOOK. 


that no violence had been done to the place or its 
inhabitants. Some of the older boys were for 
venturing to return, but aunt Polly held them back 


id 



AUNT POLLY SHEDD’S BRIGADE. 


with her prudent arguments. If their parents had 
considered it safe for them to come home they 
would have sent for them. The British, she said, 
had been known to impress boys, as well as men, 
into service, and the wisest way was to keep out of 
their sight. 

“The gentle, motherly advice prevailed, and 
even Dan Parsons contented himself with climb- 
ing the tallest trees in the vicinity, from which he 
could see the chimneys of several of the nearest 
houses. From these pinnacles he would call out to 
us at intervals : 

“‘The smoke cornin’ out o’ Deacon Mileses 
chimly has a queer look, somethin’ like burnin’ 
feathers ! I shouldn’t wonder a mite if them Brit- 
ishers was burnin’ up his furnitoor ! Sam Kelly’s 
folks hain’t had a spark o’ fire in their fireplace 
to-day. Poor critters ! Mebbe there ain’t nobody 
left ter want one.’ 

“ With these dismal surmises, Dan managed to 
keep our forlorn little flock as uncomfortable as 
even he could wish; and as the second night drew 
on, I suppose the homesickness of the smaller ones 


AUNT POLLY SHEDD’S BRIGADE. 


must have been pitiful to see. Aunt Polly patted 
and cuddled the forlorn little things to the best of 
her ability, but it was past midnight before the 
last weary, sobbing baby was fairly asleep, while 
all night long one or another would start up terri- 
fied from some frightful dream, to be soothed into 
quiet by the patient motherly tenderness of their 
wakeful protector. 

“ Next morning the brow of the farmer wore an 
ominous frown, and his wife, as she distributed to 
each the scant measure of brown bread and milk 
remarked, grudgingly, that she should think ’twas 
’bout time that her house was cleared of a crowd 
o’ hungry, squallin’ young ones ; and then Mr. 
Gubtil took out his account-book and wrote down 
the name of each child, with an estimate of the 
amount of bread, milk and potatoes consumed by 
each. He did this with the audible remark that 
* if folks thought he was a-feedin’ an’ a-housin’ 
their young ones for nothin’ they’d find themselves 
mightily mistaken.’ 

“The third morning dragged slowly away. Din- 
ner was over and still no message for us forlorn 


AUNT POLLY GIVES BENJIE A FLAG OF TRUCE 









AUNT POLLY SHEDD’s BRIGADE. 


little ones. At last aunt Polly slowly arose from 
her seat upon the doorstep, with the light of a 
strong, courageous resolve on her little face. 

“ ‘ Children ! ’ she called loudly, and after we 
had gathered at her call, she spoke to us with an 
encouraging smile : 

“ ‘ I’ve made up my mind that ’twon’t be best 
for us to stay here another night. We’re in the 
way, and the little ones would be better off at 
home with their mothers. We know that the 
fightin’ is all over, and I don’t believe that the 
English soldiers’ll be bad enough to hurt a lot o’ 
little helpless children, ’specially if they’re under a 
flag o’ truce.’ 

“ Here she drew a handkerchief from her 
pocket. This she fastened carefully to a stick. 
Then putting it into the hands of my brother Ben, 
a well-grown lad of twelve, she went on with her 
directions : 

“‘We’ll form in procession, just as we came, and 
you, Benjie, may march at the head with this white 
flag a-wavin’ to let them know that we come in 
peace. I’ll follow next with the biggest boys, an’ 


AUNT POLLY SHEDD’S BRIGADE. 


the girls, with the little ones, must keep behind 
where it’s safest.’ 

“ Perhaps it was the contagion of aunt Polly’s 
cheerful courage, but more likely it was the 
blessed hope of seeing home and father and 
mother again, that made the little folks so prompt 
to obey her directions. We formed ourselves in 
line in less time than it takes to tell about it ; we 
elder girls took charge of the wee ones who were 
so rejoiced to leave the inhospitable roof of the 
Gubtils’ that they forgot all their fears of the ter- 
rible English, and trotted along as blithely over 
the deserted road as if not a fear had ever terrified 
their childish hearts, and as if English soldiers 
were still simply those far-off monsters that had 
served as bugbears to frighten them now and then 
into obedience to maternal authority. 

“ The Gubtils watched us off without a word of 
encouragement or friendliness. Aunt Polly walked 
close behind the flag-bearer with a firm step, but I 
could see that she was very pale, and when we came 
to descend the little hill that led into the village, 
and when just at its foot, where then stood the 


AUNT POLLY SHEDD’s BRIGADE. 


grocery of old Penn Parker, we caught a glimpse 
of the scarlet uniforms of several soldiers loafing 
about — then even we children could see that her 
steps faltered ; and I remember I thought she was 
fearful of some violence. 

“ But the next moment she was walking steadily 
along again as if no thought of danger or retreat 
had ever entered her mind ; and as we came oppo- 
site the grocery and a tall man in an officer’s uni- 
form strolled out toward us with a curious, ques- 
tioning look upon his handsome face, she gave the 
word of command to her little brigade in a voice as 
clear as a bell : 

“ ‘ Halt, children ! ’ 

“ We all stood still as mice, eying the stranger 
with looks in which fear and admiration were 
probably curiously blended, while aunt Polly, tak- 
ing the white flag from her color-bearer, advanced 
with a firm front to meet the foe who now, rein- 
forced by several men, stood beside the way, evi- 
dently wondering what this queer parade was about. 

“ ‘ Sir ! 5 and aunt Polly’s voice trembled per- 
ceptibly but she waved the white flag manfully 


AUNT POLLY SHEDD’S BRIGADE. 


under his very nose, ‘ sir, I demand a safe passage 
for these innocent children to their different 
homes.’ 

“The officer stared, and his mouth twitched mis- 
chievously as if he had hard work to keep from 
laughing outright. But he was a gentleman ; and 
when he spoke, he spoke like one. 

“ ‘ My good woman,’ he said kindly, ‘these chil- 
dren are nothing to me. If you wish permission 
for them to go to their own homes you are welcome 
to it, though in what way the matter concerns me 
I must confess I am at a loss to imagine. 

“ Then, and not till then, aunt Polly broke 
down and sobbed aloud : 

“ ‘ Run, children ! ’ she cried as soon as she 
could speak ; ‘ go home just as fast as you can 
scud ; an’ tell your folks,’ she added with a gust of 
gratitude, ‘ that there’s worse folks in the world 
than an Englishman.’ 

“ You may be sure that we waited for no further 
urging : and as we flew, rather than ran, in the di- 
rection of our different homes, I heard the irre- 
pressible burst of laughter with which the officer 


AUNT POLLY SHEDD’s BRIGADE. 


and his men received the grateful spinster’s com- 
pliment which, to the day of her death, she loved to 
repeat whenever she told the thrilling story of her 
adventure with the English officer, ‘ when Hamp- 
den was took by the British in 1814;’ always con- 
cluding with this candid admission : 

“ ‘ An’ really, now, if he’d ’a’ been anybody but 
an Englishman, an’ an inimy, I should ’a’ said that 
I never sot eyes on a better-built, more mannerly 
man, in all my born days.’ ” 


THE INVISIBLE PAINTER. 



NE fine spring morning, a great many years 


ago, five or six young men were assembled 
in a large painting-room in one of the great 
Spanish cities, while a grave, dark-haired, rather 
sad-looking man, in a rich dress of purple vel- 
vet, was going from picture to picture, and saying 
a few words upon each, to which his pupils 
listened very respectfully. — And well they might; 
for this man was himself one of the greatest 
painters living, and his name was Esteban (Stephen) 
Murillo. 

But it was plain that the pupils had not been 
working as well as usual that day ; for Murillo had 
a great deal of fault-finding to do. One student 
had painted an arm wrong; another had spoiled 
the effect of his sunset; a third had made a bad 
fault in the shading of his sky ; and so on, and sc 


THE INVISIBLE PAINTER. 


on, till at last the master lost patience altogether, 
and cried angrily : 

“ Really, gentlemen, this is too bad ! You don’t 
seem to remember anything that I tell you. If you 
can’t do better than this, that poor little monkey of 
a Sebastian, yonder, has a good chance of becom- 
ing a painter as any of you ! ” 

The “ poor little monkey ” was a Moorish lad of 
fourteen, one of Murillo’s servants, who had to 
sweep out the painting-room, grind the students’ 
colors for them, and do other jobs about the house. 
His face flushed as he heard his master speak so 
contemptuously of him ; but he said nothing. 

When the pupils came in the next morning, one 
or two of them noticed that their pictures were not 
where they had left them ; and Manuel Suarez, a 
little black-eyed fellow with a pretty hot temper of 
his own, found his brushes all smeared with paint, 
and flew into a passion at once : 

“Ihe Zombi* must have been at work here!” 
shouted he, shaking his fist ; “ I cleaned these 

# A mischievous fairy of the “Robin Goodfellow” sort, supposed to 
play tricks at night. 


THE INVISIBLE PAINTER. 


brushes myself last night, and look at them 
now ! ” 

“ And he seems to have been at me too,” cried 
another, “for here’s a child’s head on my canvas, 
which is none of my doing ! ” 

“ Well,” yawned Jose Villavicemio, the laziest of 
the whole school, “ if it is the Zombi, I wish he’d 
just put in the face of my St. Catherine while he is 
about it, for I’m sure / can’t. Hollo ! ” 

Well might he cry “ hollo ! ” There, on his can- 
vas, instead of the blurred, unfinished head that he 
had left there the night before, was a face so beau- 
tiful, so admirably painted, and yet so light and 
delicate, that the whole six stared at it in silent 
astonishment. 

At that moment the door opened, and in came 
Murillo. 

“ Ha, Villavicemio ! ” cried he, looking from the 
picture to his lazy pupil, “ this is better than I ex- 
pected of you / ” 

“ But it wasn’t I who did it. master — more’s the 
pity!” 

“ Not you ? Who was it, then ? ” 


THE INVISIBLE PAINTER. 


“That’s just what none of us. can tell, Senor Don 
Esteban ; we found it here when we came.” 

“Hum,” said Murillo. “Well, we can talk of 
that again ; let us get to work now.” 

But, from that day forth, it really seemed as if 
some mischievous fairy had taken Murillo’s studio 
for his playground. Half-completed pictures were 
finished no one knew how — loose strips of canvas 
were covered with admirable portraits of the vari- 
ous pupils — and one morning there appeared on 
the wall a capital likeness of Murillo, at which the 
great master himself smiled approvingly. But all 
these paintings were so much better than anything 
which the students themselves could do, that they 
were completely puzzled. 

However, Murillo was not the man to let such 
pranks be played upon him for nothing; and one 
evening he said to his class : 

“ It’s time to put a stop to these tricks, gentle- 
men. Whoever this invisible painter may be, he’s 
a man like ourselves ; and our best way is to come 
an hour earlier to-morrow, and try if we can’t catch 
him at work.” 


THE INVISIBLE PAINTER. 


And so they did, sure enough ; for when they 
came next morning, there, seated before one of the 
pictures, and so intent upon his work that he did 
not even hear the door open, was the “poor little 
monkey,” Sebastian ! ” 

It would be hard to say which was the more 
astounded — Sebastian to find himself caught, or 
Murillo and his pupils to see who their “ fairy ” 
really was. 

“ Who taught you to paint, boy?” asked Murillo 
at length. 

“ You, master,” replied Sebastian timidly. 

“ Why, I never gave you a lesson in my life ! ” 

“No, master; but I listened to what you told 
these gentlemen, and remembered it.” 

“And you have fairly beaten us all!” burst 
out Suarez, in his headlong way. “ Bravo Sebas- 
tian!” 

“ Bravo Sebastian ! ” echoed all the rest. 

“ God bless thee, my son,” said Murillo, laying 
his hand tenderly on the boy’s head. “ I have made 
something far better than a picture this time — I 
have made a painter ! Henceforth thou shalt be 


THE INVISIBLE PAINTER. 


called no more Sebastian Gomez, but ‘ El Mucacho 
de Murillo ’ ” (Murillo’s Boy). 

And although Sebastian Gomez afterwards be- 
came a famous painter (as you may see by the pic- 
tures which he has left behind him) he was known 
as “ Murillo’s Boy ” to the end of his life. 


TWO PERSIAN SCHOOLBOYS. 


AKE, Otanes, wake, the Magi are singing 



the morning hymn to Mithras. Quick, or 


we shall be late at the exercises, and father promised, 
if we did well, we should go to the chase with him 
to-day.” 

‘‘And perhaps shoot a lion. What a feather in our 
caps that would be ! Is it pleasant ? ” 

Smerdis pulled open the shutters that closed the 
windows, and the first rays of the sun sparkled on, 
the trees and fountains of a beautiful garden beyond 
whose lofty walls appeared the dwellings and towers 
of a mighty city. Already the low roar of its traffic 
reached them while hurrying on their clothes to join 
their companions in the spacious grounds where they 
were trained in wrestling, throwing blocks of wood at 
each other to acquire agility in dodging the missiles, 
the skilful use of the bow, and various other exercises 


TWO PERSIAN SCHOOLBOYS. 


for the development of bodily strength and grace. 

A few minutes later the two brothers, Smerdis and 
Otanes, with scores of other lads, ranging in age from 
seven to fourteen years, were assembled in a vast 
playground, surrounded on all sides by a lofty wall. 

The playground of a large boarding-school ? 

It almost might be called so, but the pupils of this 
boarding-school were educated free of expense to 
their parents, and it received only the sons of the high- 
est nobles in the land. This playground was attached 
to the palace of Darius, King of Persia, who reigned 
twenty-four hundred years ago, and these chosen boys 
had been taken from their homes, as they reached the 
age of six years, to be reared “ at his gate,” as the 
language of the country expressed it. 

Otanes and Smerdis were sons of one of the highest 
officers of the court, the “ ear of the king,” or, as he 
would now be called, the Minister of Police. Hand- 
some little fellows of eleven and twelve, with blue 
eyes, fair complexions, and curling yellow locks, their 
long training in all sorts of physical exercises had 
made them stronger and hardier than most lads of 
their age in our time. Though reared in a palace, at 


TWO PERSIAN SCHOOLBOYS. 


one of the most splendid courts the world has ever 
seen, the boys were expected to endure the hardships 
of the poorest laborer s children. Instead of the gold 
and silver bedsteads used by the nobles, they were 
obliged to sleep on the floor; if the court was at 
Babylon, they were forced to make long marches under 
the burning sun of Asia, and if, to escape the intense 
heat, the king removed to his summer palaces at 
Ecbatana and Pasargadae, situated in the mountain- 
ous regions of Persia, where it was often bitterly cold, 
the boys were ordered to bathe in the icy water of til e 
rivers flowing from the heights. In place of the 
dainty dishes and sweetmeats for which Persian cooks 
were famous, they were allowed nothing but bread 
water, and a little meat ; sometimes to accustom them 
to hardship they were deprived entirely of food for a 
day, or even longer. 

On this morning the exercises seemed specially long 
to the two brothers, full of anticipations of pleasure ; 
but finally the last block of wood was hurled, the last 
arrow shot, the last wrestling match ended, and the 
boys, bearing a sealed roll of papyrus, containing a 
leave of absence for one day, hurried off towards home. 


TWO PERSIAN SCHOOLBOYS. 


Their father’s palace stood at no great distance 
from the royal residence, on the long, wide street, 
extending straight to the city gates, and like the houses 
of all the Persian nobles, was surrounded by a beau- 
tiful walled garden called a paradise, laid out with 
dower-beds of roses, poppies, oleanders, ornamental 
plants adorned with fountains, and shaded by lofty 
trees. 

The hunting party was nearly ready to start, and 
the courtyard was thronged. Servants rushed to and 
fro bearing shields, swords, lances, bows and lassos, 
for a hunter was always equipped with bow and 
arrows, two lances, a sword and a shield. Others 
held in leash the dogs to be used in starting the game. 

The enormous preserves in the neighborhood of 
Babylon were well-stocked with animals, including 
stags, wild boars, and a few lions. Several noblemen 
clad in the plain hunting costume always worn in the 
chase, were already mounted, among them the father 
of the two lads, who greeted them affectionately as 
they respectfully approached and kissed his hand. 

“ Make haste, boys, your horses are ready. Take 
only bows and shields — the swords and lances 


TWO PERSIAN SCHOOLBOYS. 


will be in your way ; you must not try to deal with 
larger game than you can manage with your arrows.” 

“May we not carry daggers in our belts too, 
father?” cried Otanes eagerly. “They can’t be in 
our way, and if we should meet a lion ” — 

A laugh from the group of nobles interrupted him. 
“ Your son seeks large game, Intaphernes ! ’’exclaimed 
a handsome officer. “ He must have better weapons 
than a bow and dagger, if ” — 

The rest of the sentence was drowned by the noise 
in the courtyard, but as the party rode towards the 
gate Intaphernes looked back : “Yes, take the dag- 
gers, it can do no harm. Keep with Candaules.” 

The old slave, a gray-haired, but muscular man, 
with several other attendants, joined the lads, and 
the long train passed out into the street and to- 
ward the city gates. Otanes hastily whispered his 
brother : “ Keep close by me, Sinerdis ; if only we 
catch sight of a lion, we’ll show what we can do with 
bows and arrows. 

The sun was now several hours high, and the streets, 
lined with tall brick houses, were crowded with people 
— artisans ? slaves, soldiers, nobles and citizens, the 


THE BOYS HURRIED OFF TOWARD HOME. 



* 




TWO PERSIAN SCHOOLBOYS. 


latter clad in white linen shirts, gay woollen tunics 
and short cloaks. Two-wheeled wooden vehicles, 
drawn by horses decked with bells and tassels, litters 
containing veiled women borne by slaves, and now 
and then, the superb gilded carriage, hung with silk 
curtains, of some royal princess passed along. Here 
and there a heavily laden camel moved slowly by, and 
t le next instant a soldier of the king’s bodyguard 
dashed past in his superb uniform — a gold cuirass, 
purple surcoat, and high Persian cap, the gold scab 
bard of his sword and the gold apple on his lance-tip 
flashing in the sun. 

High above the topmost roofs of even the lofty 
towers on the walls rose the great sanctuary of the 
Magi, * the immense Temple of Bel, visible in all 
quarters of the city, and seen for miles from every 
part of the flat plain on which Babylon stood. The 
huge staircase wound like a serpent round and round 
the outside of the building to the highest story, which 
contained the sanctuary itself and also the observatory 
whence the priests studied the stars. 

Otanes and Smerdis, chatting eagerly together rode 

♦The Magi were the Persian priests. 


TWO PERSIAN SCHOOLBOYS. 


on as fast as the crowd would permit, and soon reached 
one of the gates in the huge walls that defended the 
city. These walls, seventy-five feet high, and wide 
enough to allow two chariots to drive abreast, were 
strengthened by two hundred and fifty towers, except 
on one side, where deep marshes extended to their 
base. Beyond these marshes lay the hunting-grounds, 
and the party, turning to the left, rode for a time over 
a smooth highway, between broad tracts of land sown 
with wheat, barley and sesame. Slender palm-trees cov- 
ered with clusters of golden dates were seen in every 
direction, and the sunbeams shimmered on the canals 
and ditches which conducted water from the Eu- 
phrates to all parts of the fields. 

Otanes’ horse suddenly shied violently as a rider, 
mounted on a fleet steed, and carrying a large pouch, 
dashed by like the wind. 

“ One of the Augari bearing letters to the next sta- 
tion!” exclaimed Smerdis. “See how he skims 
along. Hi ! If I were not to be one of the king’s 
bodyguard, I’d try for an Augar’s place. How he 
goes ! He’s almost out of sight already.” 

“ How far apart are the stations ? ” asked Otanes. 


TWO PERSIAN SCHOOLBOYS. 

“ Eighteen miles. And when he gets there, he’ll 
just toss the letter bag to the next man, who is sitting 
on a fresh horse waiting for it, and away he'll go like 
lightning. That’s the way the news is carried to the 
very end of the empire of our lord the King.” 

“ Must be fine fun,” replied Otanes. “ But see, 
there’s the gate of the hunting-park. Now for the 
lion,” he added gayly. 

“ May Ormuzd * save you from meeting one, my 
young master,” said the old servant Candaules. 
“ Luckily it’s broad daylight, and they are more apt 
to come from their lairs after dark. Better begin 
with smaller game and leave the lion and wild boars 
to your father.” 

“Not if we catch sight of them,” cried Otanes, 
settling his shield more firmly on his arm, and urging 
his horse to a quicker pace, for the head of the long 
train of attendants had already disappeared amid the 
dark cypress-trees of the hunting park. The immense 
enclosure stretching from the edge of the morasses 
that bordered the walls of Babylon far into the coun- 
try, soon echoed with the shouts of the attendants 


* The principal god of the Persians. 


TWO PERSIAN SCHOOLBOYS. 


beating the coverts for game, the baying of the dogs, 
the hiss of lances and whir of arrows. Bright-hued 
birds, roused by the tumult, flew wildly hither and 
thither, now and then the superb plumage of a bird 
of paradise flashing like a jewel among the dense 
foliage of cypress and nut-trees. 

Hour after hour sped swiftly away ; the party had 
dispersed in different directions, following the course 
of the game ; the sun was sinking low, and the slaves 
were bringing the slaughtered birds and beasts to the 
wagons used to convey them home. A magnificent 
stag was among the spoil, and a fierce wild boar, after 
a long struggle, had fallen under a thrust from 
Intaphernes’s lance. 

The shrill blast of the Median trumpet sounded 
thrice, to give the first of the three signals for the 
scattered hunters to meet at the appointed place, near 
the entrance of the park, and the two young brothers 
who, attended by Candaules and half a dozen slaves, 
had ridden far into the shady recesses of the woods, 
reluctantly turned their horses’ heads. No thought 
of disobeying the summons entered their minds — 
Persian boys were taught that next to truth and cour- 


TWO PERSIAN SCHOOLBOYS. 


age, obedience was the highest virtue, and rarely was 
a command transgressed. 

They had had a good day’s sport; few arrows 
remained in their quivers, and the attendants carried 
bunches of gay plumaged birds and several smafl 
animals, among them a pretty little fawn. “ Let’s gr 
nearer the marshes; th£re are not so many trees, an< 
we can ride faster,” said Otanes as the trumpet-cali 
was repeated, and the little party turned in that direc- 
tion, moving more swiftly as they passed out upon 
the strip of open ground between the thicket and the 
marshes. The sun was just setting. The last crimson 
rays, shimmering on the pools of water standing here 
and there in the morasses, cast reflections on the 
tall reeds and rushes bordering their margins 

Suddenly a pretty spotted fawn darted in front of 
the group, and crossing the open ground, vanished 
amid a thick clump of reeds. “ What a nice pet the 
little creature would make for our sister Hadessah ! ” 
cried Otanes eagerly. “ See ! it has hidden among 
the reeds ; we might take it alive. Go with Candaules 
and the slaves, Smerdis, and form a half-circle beyond 
the clump. When you’re ready, whistle, and I’ll ride 


TWO PERSIAN SCHOOLBOYS. 


straight down and drive it towards you ; you can easily 
catch it then. We are so near the entrance of the 
park now that we shall have plenty of time ; the third 
signal hasn’t sounded yet.” 

Smerdis instantly agreed to the plan. The horses 
were fastened to some trees, and the men cautiously 
made a wide circuit, passed the bed of reeds, and 
concealed themselves behind the tall rushes beyond. 
A low whistle gave Otanes the signal to drive out the 
fawn. 

Smerdis and the slaves saw the lad straighten him- 
self in the saddle, and with a shout, dash at full speed 
towards the spot where the fawn had vanished. He 
had almost reached it when the stiff stalks shook 
violently, and a loud roar made them all spring to 
their feet. They saw the brave boy check his horse 
and fit an arrow to the string, but as he drew the 
bow, there was a stronger rustle among the reeds ; a 
tawny object flashed through the air, striking Otanes 
from his saddle, while the horse, free from its rider, 
dashed, snorting with terror, towards the park entrance. 

“ A lion ! A lion ! ” shrieked the trembling slaves, 
but Smerdis, drawing his dagger, ran towards the 


THE HUNTING PARTY WERE NEARLY READY TO START. 





TWO PERSIAN SCHOOLBOYS. 


place where his brother had fallen, passing close by 
the body of the fawn which lay among the reeds with 
its head crushed by a blow from the lion’s paw. 
Candaules followed close at the lad’s heels. 

Parting the thick growth of stalks, they saw, only 
a few paces off, Otanes, covered with blood, lying 
motionless on the ground, and beside him the dead 
body of a half-grown lion, the boy’s arrow' buried in 
one eye, while the blood still streamed from a lance- 
wound in the animal’s side. 

Smerdis, weeping, threw himself beside his brother, 
and at the same moment Intaphernes, with several 
nobles and attendants, attracted by the cries, dashed 
up to the spot. The father, springing from the sad- 
dle, bent, and laid his hand on the boy’s heart. 

“ It is beating still, and strongly too ! ” he exclaimed. 
“ Throw water in his face ! perhaps ” — 

Without finishing the sentence, he carefully exam- 
ined the motionless form. “Ormuzd be praised! 
He has no wound ; the blood has flowed from the lion. 
See, Prexaspes, there is a lance-head sticking in its 
side. I believe it’s the very beast you wounded early 
in the day/’ 


TWO PERSIAN SCHOOLBOYS. 

The officer whose laugh had so vexed Otanes, 
stooped over the dead lion and looked at the broken 
shaft. 

“ Ay, it’s my weapon ; the beast probably made its 
way to the morass for water ; but, by Mithras ! * the 
lad’s arrow killed the brute ; the barb passed through 
the eyeball into the brain.” 

“ Yes, my lord,” cried old Candaules eagerly, 
“ and doubtless it was only the weight of the animal, 
which, striking my young master as it made its spring, 
hurled him from the saddle and stunned him. See ! 
he is opening his eyes. Otanes, Otanes, you’ve killed 
the lion ! ” 

The boy’s eyelids fluttered, then slowly rose, his 
eyes wandered over the group, and at last rested on 
the dead lion. The old slave’s words had evidently 
reached his ear, for with a faint smile he glanced 
archly at Prexaspes, and raising himself on one elbow, 
said : 

“ You see, my lord — even with a bow and dagger ! ” 


The Persian god of the sun. 


MILTON’S MULBERRY 
TREE. 


D URING the boyhood of Milton there was 
throughout England much interest in the 
planting of mulberry trees. James i. had con- 
ceived the idea of introducing into his kingdom 
the manufacture of silk, and in 1608, the year in 
which Milton was born, had imported from France 
hundreds of thousands of mulberry trees, the 
leaves of which furnish appropriate food for silk- 
worms. 

Many of them were distributed throughout the 
country with directions in regard to the planting of 
them and the rearing of silkworms. Shakespeare, 
who a few years before had purchased a small es- 
tate in his native Stratford-on-Avon, had some of 
them, and planted one in the garden of his New 
Place. It flourished there for a hundred and fifty 


MILTON’S MULBERRY TREE- 


years, until the place came into the possession of 
a gentleman who was so much annoyed by the fre- 


MILTON AT NINETEEN — WHEN AT CAMBRIDGE. 

quent visits of persons desiring to see the poet’s 
tree, that he ordered it to be cut down. When) 
Washington Irving was at Stratford, he met John 
Ange, a carpenter, then eighty years old, who had 
assisted in cutting down the tree. 

But a large part of the imported trees were 



Milton’s mulberry tree. 


planted under the supervision of the king, on one 
side of St. James’ Park in London, forming the 
Mulberry Garden. It is not known exactly when 
the keeping of silkworms there was discontinued, 
but in time the garden came to be used merely as 
a public park. 

Much information respecting the customs of the 
seventeenth century has been obtained from the 
diaries, since published, of two very accomplished 
gentlemen, John Evelyn and Samuel Pepys. From 
these diaries it appears that as early as 1649, anc ^ 
as late as 1668, the Mulberry Garden was a place 
of public resort. Early in the next century, how- 
ever, it had become the private property of the 
Duke of Buckingham. Buckingham Palace, the 
London residence of the Queen, now occupies the 
site of the famous Mulberry Garden. 

Milton was a lover of nature as well as of books. 
When living in London he always chose a house 
with land about it, a “ garden house,” as it was 
called, which was less difficult to be obtained there 
two hundred and fifty years ago than now. No 
doubt he had been interested in the king’s mul- 


MILTON’S MULBERRY TREE. 

berry plantation, and when he went to reside in 
Cambridge, it was natural for him to plant a 
young mulberry tree in the garden of his college, 
a shoot, very likely, from one of the London trees. 



MILTON’S MULBERRY TREE. 


It is pleasant for us to imagine the young stu- 
dent’s interest in this tree. Of one thing we may 
be sure. There is no danger that Milton’s tree 


milton’s mulberry tree. 


will share the fate of Shakespeare’s. It is still 
vigorous, producing good fruit in abundance, and 
it is most carefully tended. Mulberry trees are 
especially liable to suffer from too much moisture, 
and the trunk of this one is somewhat decayed ; 
but the defective parts are protected by canvas 
and sheet-lead. Props have been put under the 
branches that require support, and a mound cov- 
ered with grass has been banked up to the height 
of four feet around the trunk. If a branch falls 
off, it is divided by the Fellows of the College 
among themselves. A shoot from the tree has 
been planted near it. 

It was early in the month of September that I 
visited Christ’s College. The mulberries, of which 
there was an abundance on the tree, were then 
ripe. A sentinel stood close by keeping strict 
guard that visitors should not touch the sacred 
tree. However, no objection was made to our 
taking some of the leaves and ripe berries that had 
fallen upon the ground. 

While in college Milton was remarkable for his 
attainments, and even then, was certainly ambi- 


milton’s mulberry tree. 


tious to become distinguished as a poet ; but I 
suppose that neither he nor any of his associates 
imagined that this tree would be — just because 
he planted it — so reverently cherished by the 
many generations of young men who should come 
after him at Christ’s College ; and that it would 
continue to be for century after century an object 
of genuine interest to the wisest and best of his 
countrymen and to pilgrims from other lands, 
especially to the descendants of those exiles that 
in 1620, only a few years before, had landed on 
Plymouth Rock, and, at the time when Milton was 
in Cambridge, were laying the foundations of civil 
and religious liberty in a New World. 


A HERO. 


' I "'HEY were sitting by the great blazing wood- 
fire. It was July, but there was an east wind 
and the night was chilly. Besides, Mrs. Heath had 
a piece of fresh pork to roast. Squire Blake had 
“ killed ” the day before — that was the term used 
to signify the slaughter of any domestic animal for 
food — and had distributed the “ fresh ” to various 
families in town, and Mrs. Heath wanted hers for 
the early breakfast. Meat was the only thing to be 
had in plenty — meat and berries. Wheat and corn, 
and vegetables even, were scarce. There had been 
a long winter, and then, too, every family had sent 
early in the season all they could possibly spare to 
the Continental army. As to sugar and tea and 
molasses, it was many a day since they had had 
even the taste of them. 


A HERO. 


The piece of pork was suspended from the ceiling 
by a stout string, and slowly revolved before the fire, 
Dorothy or Arthur giving it a fresh start when it 
showed signs of stopping. There was a settle at 
right angles with the fireplace, and here the little 
cooks sat, Dorothy in the corner nearest the fire, 
and Arthur curled up on the floor at her feet, where 
he could look up the chimney and see the moon, 
almost at the full, drifting through the sky. At 
the opposite corner sat Abram, the hired man and 
faithful keeper of the family in the absence of its 
head, at work on an axe helve, while Bathsheba, 
or “ Basha,” as she was briefly and affectionately 
called, was spinning in one corner of the room just 
within range of the firelight. 

There was no other light — the firelight being suffi- 
cient for their needs — and it was necessary to 
economize in candles, for any day a raid from the 
royal army might take away both cattle and sheep, 
and then where would the tallow come from for 
the annual fall candle-making? There was a rumor 
— Abram had brought it home that very day — that 
the royal army were advancing, and red coats might 


A HERO. 


make their appearance in Hartland at any time. 
Arthur and Dorothy were talking about it, as they 
turned the roasting fork. 

“Wish I was a man,” said Arthur, glancing 
towards his mother, who was sitting in a low splint 
chair knitting stockings for her boy’s winter wear. 
“ I’d like to shoot a red coat.” 

“O Arty!” exclaimed Dorothy reproachfully; 
“you’re always thinking of shooting! Now / should 
like to nurse a sick soldier and wait upon him. 
Poor soldiers! it was dreadful what papa wrote to 
mamma about them.” 

Would you nurse a red coat ? ” asked Arthur, 
indignantly. 

“Yes,” said Dorothy. “Though of course I 
should rather, a great deal rather, nurse one of 
our own soldiers. But Arty,” continued the little 
elder sister, “papa says if we must fight, why, we 
must fight bravely, but that we can be brave without 
fighting.” 

“Well, I mean to be a hero, and heroes always 
fight. King Arthur fought. Papa said so. He and 
his knights fought for the Sangreal, and liberty 


A HERO. 


is our Sangreal. I’m glad my name is Arthur, 
anyhow, for Arthur means noble and high,” he said, 
lifting his bright boyish face with its steadfast blue 
eyes, and glancing again towards his mother. She 
gave an answering smile. 

“ I hope my boy will always be noble and high 
in thought and deed. But, as papa said, to be a 
hero one does not need to fight, at least, not to 
fight men. We can fight bad tempers and bad 
thoughts and cowardly impulses. They who fight 
these things successfully are the truest heroes, my 
boy.” 

“Ah, but mamma, didn’t I hear you tell grand- 
mamma how you were proud of your hero. That’s 
what you called papa when General Montgomery 
wrote to you, with his own hand, how he drove 
back the enemy at the head of his men, while the 
balls were flying and the cannons roaring and 
flashing; and when his horse was shot under him 
how he struggled out and cheered on his men, on 
foot, and the bullets whizzed and the men fell all 
around him, and he wasn’t hurt and” — Here the 
boy stopped abruptly and sprang impulsively forward, 


A HERO. 


for his mother’s cheek had suddenly grown pale. 

“True grit!” remarked Abram to Basha, in an 
undertone, as she paused in her walk to and fro 
by the spinning-wheel to join a broken thread. 
“ But there never was a coward yet, man or woman, 
’mong the Heaths, an’ I’ve known ’em off an’ 
on these seventy year. Now there was ole Gin- 
eral Heath,” he continued, holding up the axe 
helve and viewing it critically with one eye shut, 
“he was a marster hand for fightin’. Fit the Injuns 
’s though he liked it. That gun up there was his’n.” 

“Tell us about the ‘sassy one,”’ said Arthur, 
turning at the word gun. 

“Youngster, ’f I’ve tole yer that story once, I’ve 
tole yer fifty times,” said Abram. 

“Tell it again,” said the boy eagerly. “And 
take down the gun, too.” 

Abram got up as briskly as his seventy years 
and his rheumatism would permit, and took down 
the gun from above the mantel-piece. It was a very 
large one. 

“Not quite so tall as the old Gineral himself,” 
said Abram, “but a purty near to it. This gun is 


A HERO. 


’bout seven feet, an’ yer gran’ther was seven feet 
two — a powerful built man. Wall, the Injuns had 
been mighty obstreperous ’long ’bout that time, 
burnin’ the Widder Brown’s house and her an’ her 
baby a-hidin’ in a holler tree near by, an’ carryin’ 
off critters an’ hosses, an’ that day yer gran’ther 
was after ’em with a posse o’ men, an’ what did 
that pesky Injun do but git up on a rock a quarter 
o’ a mile off an’ jestickerlate in an outrigerus 
manner, like a sarcy boy, an’ yer gran’ther, he took 
aim and fired, an’ that impident Injun jest tumbled 
over with a yell ; his last, mind ye, and good enough 
for him!” 

“I like to hear about old gran’ther,” said Arthur. 

As Abram was restoring the gun to its place 
upon the hooks, a sound was heard at the side 
door — a sound as of a heavy body falling against 
it, which startled them all. The dog Caesar rose, 
and going to the door which opened into the side 
entry, sniffed along the crack above the threshold. 
Apparently satisfied, he barked softly, and rising on 
his hind legs lifted the latch and sprang into the 
entry. Abram followed with Basha. As he lifted 


A HERO. 


the latch of the outer door — the string had been 
drawn in early, as was the custom in those troublous 
times — and swung it back, the light from the fire fell 
upon the figure of a man lying across the doorstone. 

“ Sakes alive ! ” exclaimed Abram, drawing back. 
But at a word from the mistress, they lifted the 
man and brought him in and laid him down on the 
braided woollen mat before the fire. Then for a 
moment there was silence, for he wore the dress 
of a British soldier, and his right arm was bandaged. 
He had fainted from loss of blood, apparently — per- 
haps from hunger. Basha loosened his coat at the 
throat, and tried to force a drop or two of “ spirits ” 
into his mouth, while Mrs. Heath rubbed his hands. 

“He ain’t dead,” said Basha, in a grim tone, “and 
mind you, we’ll see trouble from this.” Basha 
was an arrant rebel, and hated the very sight of 
a red coat. “What are you doin’ here,” she con- 
tinued, addressing him, “killin’ honest folks, when 
you’d better ’ve staid cross seas in yer own country?” 

“Basha!” said Mrs. Heath reprovingly, “he is 
helpless.” 

But Basha as she unwound the tight bandage 


A HERO. 


from the shattered arm, kept muttering to herself 
like a rising tempest, until at length the man having 
come quite to himself, detected her feeling, and with 
great effort said, “ I am not a British soldier.” 

“Then what to goodness have you got on their 
uniform for ? ” queried Basha. 

Little by little the pitiful story was told. He was 
an American soldier who had been doing duty as 
a spy in the British camp. Up to the very last 
day of his stay he had not been suspected; but 
trying to get away he was suspected, challenged, 
and fired at. The shot passed through his arm. 
He was certain his pursuers had followed him till 
night, and they would be likely to continue the 
search the next day, and he begged Mrs. Heath 
to secrete him for a day or two, if possible. 

“ I wouldn’t mind being shot, marm,” he said, 
“ but you know they’ll hang me if they get me. Of 
course I risked it when I went into their camp, 
but it’s none the pleasanter for all that.” 

Now in the old Heath house there was a secret 
chamber, built in the side of the chimney. Most 
of those old colonial houses had enormous chimneys, 


A HERO. 


that took up, sometimes, a quarter of the ground 
occupied by the house, so it was not a difficult thing 
to enclose a small space with slight danger of its 
existence being detected. This chamber chimney 
in the Heath house was little more than a closet 
eight feet by four. It was entered from the north 
chamber, Abram’s room, through a narrow sliding 
panel that looked exactly like the rest of the wall, 
which was of cedar boards. An inch-wide shaft 
running up the side of the chimney ventilated the 
closet, and it was lighted by a window consisting 
of three small panes of glass carefully concealed 
under the projecting roof. In a sunny day one 
could see to read there easily. 

A small cot-bed was now carried into this room, 
and up there, after his wound had been dressed 
by Basha, who, like many old-time women, was 
skilful in dressing wounds and learned in the prop- 
erties of herbs and roots, and he had been fed 
and bathed, the soldier was taken, and a very 
grateful man he was as he settled himself upon the 
bed and looked up with a smiling “thank you,” into 
Basha’s face, which longer grim and forbidding. 


A HERO. 


All this time no special notice had been taken 
of Dorothy and Arthur. They had followed about 
to watch the bathing, feeding and tending, and when 
Mrs. Heath turned to leave the secret chamber, she 
found them behind her, staring in with very wide- 
open eyes indeed; for, if you can believe it, they 
never before had even heard of, much less seen, 
this lovely little secret chamber. It was never 
deemed wise in colonial families to talk about these 
hiding-places, which sometimes served so good a 
purpose, and I doubt if many adults in the town 
of Hartland knew of this secret chamber in the 
Heath house. 

The panel was closed, and Abram was left to 
care for the wounded soldier through the night. It 
was nine o’clock, the colonial hour for going to 
bed, and long past the children’s hour, and Dotty 
and Arthur in their prayers by their mother’s knee, 
put up a petition for the safety of the stranger. 

“ Would they hang him if they could get him, 
mamma?” asked Arty. 

“Certainly,” she replied. “It is one of the rules 
of warfare. A spy is always hung.” 


A HERO. 


In the morning, from nine to eleven, Mrs. Heath 
always devoted to the children’s lessons. Arthur, 
who was eleven, was a good Latin scholar. He 
was reading Ccesar's Commentaries, and he liked it 
— that is, he liked the story part. He found some 
of it pretty tough reading, and I need not tell you 
boys who have read Caesar, what parts those were. 
They had English readings from the Spectator, and 
from Bishop Leighton’s works, books which you 
know but little about. Dotty had a daily lesson in 
botany, and very pleasant hours those school hours 
were. 

After dinner, at twelve, they had the afternoon 
for play. That afternoon, the day after the soldier 
came, they went berrying. They did this almost 
every day during berry time, so as to have what 
they liked better than anything for supper — berries 
and milk. Occasionally they had huckleberry “slap- 
jacks,” also a favorite dish, for breakfast; not often, 
however, as flour was scarce. 

They went for berries down the road known as 
South Lane, a lonely place, but where berries grew 
plentifully. Their mother had cautioned them not 


A HERO. 


to talk about the occurrence of the night before, 
as some one might overhear, and so, though they 
talked about their play and their studies, about papa 
and his soldiers, they said nothing about the soldier. 

They had nearly filled their baskets, when a growl 
from Caesar startled them, and turning, they saw two 
horsemen who had stopped near by, one of whom 
was just springing from his horse. They were in 
British uniform, and the children at once were sure 
what they wanted. 

“O Arty, Arty!” whispered Dorothy. “They’ve 
come, and we mustn’t tell.” 

The man advanced with a smile meant to be 
pleasant, but which was in reality so sinister that 
the children shrank with a sensation of fear. 

“How are you, my little man? Picking berries, 
eh? And where do you live?” he asked. 

“With mamma,” answered Arthur promptly. 

“And who is mamma? What is her name?” 

“Mrs. Heath,” said Arty. 

“And don’t you live with papa too? Where is 
papa?” the man asked. 

Arthur hesitated an instant, and then out it came, 


A HERO. 


and proudly too. “In the Continental army, sir.” 

“ Ho ! ho ! and so we are a little rebel, are we ? ” 
laughed the man. “ And who am I ? Do you know ? ” 

“Yes, sir; a British soldier.” 

“How do you know that?” 

“Because you wear their uniform, sir?” 

“You cannot have seen many British soldiers 
here,” said the man. “Did you ever see the British 
uniform before?” 

“Yes, sir,” replied Arty. 

“And where did you see it?” he asked, glancing 
sharply at Arthur and then at Dorothy. Upon the 
face of the latter was a look of dismay, for she had 
foreseen the drift of the man’s questions and the 
trap into which Arty had fallen. He, too, saw it, 
now he was in. The only British uniform he had 
ever seen was that worn by the American spy. For 
a brief moment he was tempted to tell a lie. Then 
he said firmly, “ I cannot tell you, sir.” 

“Cannot! Does that mean will not?” said the 
man threateningly. Then he put his hand into 
his pocket and took out a bright gold sovereign, 
which he held before Arthur. 


A HERO. 


“Come, now, my little man, tell me where you 
saw the British soldier’s uniform, and you shall have 
this gold piece.” 

But all the noble impulses of the boy’s nature 
inherited and strengthened by his mother’s teach- 
ings, revolted at this attempt to bribe him. His 
eyes flashed. He looked the man full in the face. 
“ I will not ! ” said he. 

“Come, come!” cried out the man on horseback. 
“ Don’t palter any longer with the little rebel. We’ll 
find a way to make him tell. Up with him ! ” 

In an instant the man had swung Arthur into his 
saddle, and leaping up behind him, struck spurs to 
his horse and dashed away. Caesar, who had been 
sniffing about, suspicious, but uncertain, attempted 
to leap upon the horseman in the rear, but he, 
drawing his pistol from his saddle, fired, and Caesar 
dropped helpless. 

The horsemen quickly vanished, and for a moment 
Dorothy stood pale and speechless. Then she knelt 
down by Caesar, examined his wound — he was shot 
in the leg — and bound it up with her handkerchief, 
just as she saw Basha do the night before, and then 


A HERO, 


putting her arms around his neck she kissed him. 
“ Be patient, dear old Caesar, and Abram shall come 
for you ? ” 

Covered with dust, her frock stained with Caesar’s 
blood, a pitiful sight indeed was Dorothy as she 
burst into the kitchen where Basha was preparing 
supper. 

“O mamma, they’ve carried off Arty and shot 
Caesar, those dreadful, dreadful British ! ” 

Between her sobs she told the whole fearful story 
to the two women — fearful, I say, for Mrs. Heath 
knew too well the reputed character of the British 
soldiery, not to fear the worst if her boy should per- 
sist in refusing to tell where he had seen the British 
soldier’s uniform. But even in her distress she was 
conscious of a proud faith that he would not betray 
his trust. 

As to Basha, who shall describe her horror and 
indignation? “The wretches! ain’t they content to 
murder our men and burn our houses, that they 
must take our innercent little boys?” and she struck 
the spit into the chicken she was preparing for 
supper vindictively, as though thus she should like 


A HERO. 


to treat the whole British army. “The dear little 
cretur! what’ll he do to-night without his mamma, 
and him never away from her a night in his blessed 
life. Tears to me the Lord’s forgot the Colo- 
nies. O dearie, dearie me! ’utterly overcome she 
dropped into a chair, and throwing her homespun 
check apron over her head, she gave way to such 
a fit of weeping as astonished and perplexed Abram, 
one of whose principle articles of faith it was that 
Basha couldn’t shed a tear, even if she tried, “mor’n 
if she’s made o’ cast iron.” 

It indeed looked hopeless. Who was to follow 
after these men and rescue Arthur? There was 
hardly any one left in town but old men, women 
and children. 

Mrs. Heath thought of this as she soothed Dor- 
othy, coaxed her to eat a little supper, and then sat 
by her side until she fell asleep. She sat by the 
fire while the embers died out, or walked up and 
down the long, lonely kitchen, wrestling, like Jacob, 
in prayer, for her boy, until long after midnight. 

And now let us follow Arthur’s fortunes. The 
men galloped hard and long over hills, through 


A HERO. 


valleys and woods, so far away it seemed to the 
little fellow he could never possibly see mamma 
or Dorothy again. At last they drew up at a large 
white house, evidently the headquarters of the offi- 
cers, and Arthur was put at once into a dark closet 
and there left. He was tired and dreadfully hungry, 
so hungry that he could think of hardly anything 
else. He heard the rattling of china and glasses, 
and knew they were at supper. By and by a servant 
came and took him into the supper room. His eyes 
were so dazzled at first by the change from the dark 
closet to the well-lighted room, that he could scarcely 
see. But when the daze cleared he found himself 
standing near the head of the table, where sat a 
stout man with a red face, a fierce mustache, and 
an evil pair of eyes. 

He looked at Arthur a moment. Then he poured out 
a glass of wine and pushed it towards him : “ Drink ! ” 

But Arthur did not touch the glass. 

“Drink, I say,” he repeated impatiently. “Do 
you hear? ” 

“I have promised mamma never to drink wine,” 
was the low response. 


A HERO. 


It seemed to poor Arthur as though everything had 
combined against him. It was bad enough to have 
to say no to the question about the uniform, and 
now here was something else that would make the 
men still more angry with him. But the officer did 
not push his command ; he simply thrust the glass 
one side and said, “Now, my boy, we’re going to 
get that American spy and hang him. You know 
where he is and you’ve got to tell us, or it will be 
the worse for you. Do you want to see your mother 
again ? " 

Arthur did not answer. He could not have 
answered just then. A big bunch came into his 
throat. Cry? Not before these men. So he kept 
silence. 

“Obstinate little pig! speak!*’ thundered the offi- 
cer, bringing his great brawny fist down upon the 
table with a blow that set the glasses dancing. 
“Will you tell me where that spy is? ’’ 

“No, sir,” came in very low, but very firm tones. 
I will not tell you the dreadful words of that officer, 
as he turned to his servant with the command, “Put 
him down cellar, and we’ll see to him in the morning. 


A HERO. 


They’re all alike, men, women and children. Rebel- 
lion in the very blood. The only way to finish it is 
to spill it without mercy.” 

Now there was one thing that Arthur, brave as he 
was, feared, and that was — rats! Left on a heap 
of dry straw, he began to wonder if there were rats 
there. Presently he was sure he heard something 
move, but he was quickly reassured by the touch 
of soft, warm fur on his hand, and the sound of 
a melodious “pur-r.” The friendly kitty, glad of 
a companion, curled herself by his side. What 
comfort she brought to the lonely little fellow ! 
He lay down beside her, and saying his Our Father, 
and Now I lay me, was soon in a profound sleep, the 
purring little kitty nestling close. 

The sounds of revelry in the rooms above did not 
disturb him. The boisterous songs and laughter, 
the stamping of many feet, continued far into the 
night. At last they ceased; and when everything 
had been for a long time silent, the door leading 
to the cellar was softly opened and a lady came 
down the stairway. I have often wished that I 
might paint her as she looked coming down those 


A HERO. 


stairs. Arthur was afterwards my great-grandfathei 
you know, and he told me this story when I was a 
young girl in my teens. He told me how lovely 
this lady was. 

Her gown was of some rich stuff that shimmered 
in the light of the candle she carried, and rustled 
musically as she walked. There was a flash of 
jewels at her throat and on her hands. She had 
wrapped a crimson mantle about her head and 
shoulders. Her eyes were like stars on a summer’s 
night, sparkling with a veiled radiance, and as she 
stood and looked down upon the sleeping boy, a 
smile, sweet, but full of a profound sadness, played 
upon her lips. Then a determined look came into her 
bright eyes. 

He stirred in his sleep, laughed out, said “mamma,” 
and then opened his eyes. She stooped and touched 
his lips with her finger. “Hush! Speak only in a 
whisper. Eat this, and then I will take you to youi 
mother.” 

After he had eaten, she wrapped a cloak about 
him, and together they stole up and out past the 
sleeping, drunken sentinel, to the stables. She lead 


A HERO. 


out a white horse, her own horse, Arthur was sure, 
for the creature caressed her with his head, and as 
she saddled him she talked to him in low tones, 
sweet, musical words of some foreign tongue. The 
handsome horse seemed to understand the necessity 
of silence, for he did not even whinny to the touch 
of his mistress’ hand, and trod daintily and noise- 
lessly as she led him to the mounting block, his small 
ears pricking forward and backward, as though know- 
ing the need of watchful listening. 

Leaping to the saddle and stooping, she lifted 
Arthur in front of her, and with a word they were 
off. A slow walk at first, and then a rapid canter. 
Arthur never forgot that long night ride with the 
beautiful lady on the white horse, over the country 
flooded with the brilliancy of the full moon. Once 
or twice she asked if he was cold, as she drew the 
cloak more closely about him, and sometimes she 
would murmur softly to herself words in that silvery, 
foreign tongue. As they drew near Hartland, she 
asked him to point out his father’s house, and when 
they were quite near, only a little distance off, she 
stopped the horse. 


A HERO. 


“I leave you here, you brave, darling boy,” she 
said. “Kiss me once, and then jump down. And 
don’t forget me.’, 

Arthur threw his arms around her neck and kissed 
her, first on one cheek and then on the other, and 
looking up into the beautiful face with its starry eyes, 
said — 

“I will never, never forget you, for you are the 
loveliest lady I ever saw except — except mamma.” 

She laughed a pleased laugh, like a child, then 
took a ring from her hand and put it upon one of 
Arthur’s fingers. Her hand was so slender it fitted 
his chubby little hand very well. 

“Keep this,” she said, “and by and by give it 
to some lady good and true, like mamma.” 

“ Will you be punished ? ” he said, keeping her 
hand. She laughed again, with a proud, daring toss 
of her dainty head, and rode away. 

Arthur watched her out of sight, and then turned 
towards home. Mrs. Heath was still keeping her 
lonely watch, when the latch of the outer door was 
softly lifted — nobody had the heart to take in the 
string with Arty outside — the inner door swung 


A HERO. 


noiselessly back, and a blithe voice said, “Mamma! 
mamma! here I am, and I didn’t tell!” 

All that day, and the next, and the next, the Heath 
household were in momentary expectation of the com- 
ing of the red coats to search for the spy. Dorothy 
and Arthur, and sometimes Abram, did picket duty 
to give seasonable warning of their approach. But 
they never came. In a few days news was brought 
that the British forces, on the very morning after 
Arthur’s return, had made a rapid retreat before an 
advance of the Federal troops, and never again was 
a red coat seen in Hartland. The spy got well in 
great peace and comfort under Basha’s nursing, and 
went back again to do service in the Continental 
army, and Dotty used to say, “You did learn, didn’t 
you, Arty, how a person, even a little boy, can be a 
hero without fighting, just as mamma said ? ” 


BOYS B. C. 


l-BA-RES ! Bu-ba-r-e-e-e-e-s ! ” 
shrilly shouted a little fellow 
whose bare brown body glit- 
tered in the sun like a bronze 
statue suddenly endowed with 
life, as he scampered at full 
speed down the long street. 
Another lad, equally brown 
and equally bare, turned at the call, screamed 
at the top of his lungs, “Hi! Psamtik, is 
that you ? ” and ran back to meet his playmate, 
very much as two ten-year-old boys in Boston or 
New York would do, though these lads lived 
more than two thousand years ago, when people 



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BOYS B. C. 


reckoned their time B. C. instead of A. D. ; and their 
home was Sais, in Egypt, the royal residence of the 
Pharaohs. 

Psamtik threw one arm lovingly over his com- 
panion’s shoulder, exclaiming eagerly, 

“Oh! Bubares, there’s a first-rate magician going 
to perform in the fore-court of the little temple near 
the city of the dead. He swallows fire, they say, 
and pulls ribbons out of a fellow’s nose, and — and — 
oh, does all sorts of things. WilJ you go with me, 
Bubares ? ” 

“ Of course I will. Don’t I always go wherever 
you do ? Must we hurry ? ” 

“ No, there’s plenty of time.” 

The two boys walked briskly on, the hot African 
sun beating fiercely down on their naked bodies. 
The absence of clothing was not noticed. Why 
should it be ? Many Egyptian children went wholly 
unclad, as many a little one in America runs barefoot 
during the warm summer days. 

The street down which they passed was long and 
straight. The houses, built of bricks made from the 
mud of the Nile, were often five stories high ; the 


BOYS B. C. 


pictures and hieroglyphics on their walls, and their 
carved wooden balconies, gayly painted, and sup- 
ported by pillars, also brightly painted, gave them a 
pleasant, cheerful aspect. The roofs were fiat, and 
adorned with such a profusion of shrubs and flowers 
that they resembled gardens floating in the air. Here 
families spent the warm evenings, playing chequers 
or talking, unless the mosquitoes swarming upward 
from the Nile proved too troublesome and drove 
them to a small turret called a “ mosquito tower,” 
with which every well-to-do citizen’s house was sup- 
plied. There they were safe, and could look down at 
their ease on the little pests buzzing beneath ; for 
these insects flew too low to reach their airy perch. 
Everything was wonderfully neat : the door-plates 
and knockers fairly glittered in the sun, the pillars 
and balconies seemed to have just received a fresh 
coat of paint, and even the pavement looked as if it 
had been newly scoured. 

It was long after noon ; the air was beginning Ito 
grow cooler and the bustle in the streets increased. 
Gilded chariots thronged along drawn by horses with 
plumes nodding on their heads, and manes clipped 


BOYS B. C. 


so closely that they stood up along their necks like 
stiff crests ; others followed to which were harnessed 
milk-white oxen with splendid trappings ; camels 
patiently bearing heavy loads on their backs, and 
horsemen prancing on magnificent steeds, passed 
along, while the lads were constantly jostled by mer- 
chants and soldiers in white robes edged with colored 
fringes, whose width marked the rank of the wearer ; 
by brawny laborers whose only garment was a short 
apron ; by women of the lower classes, and slaves, and 
naked children. Many, alas ! of those they met 
were blind, for the dazzling suns and hot dry winds 
of Egypt have always been very injurious to the eyes. 
Others were crippled or maimed. The Egyptian laws 
were severe, and the highest rank would not shelter 
a man who committed any crime. So when the lads 
saw a person without ears, they knew he had been a 
spy ; the loss of the right hand marked a forger, and 
high treason was punished by cutting out the tongue. 
Such sights were not uncommon, and the little friends 
were talking about the wonderful magician too busily 
to notice them. 

Sais was built on a hillside sloping to the Nile, 


BOYS B. C. 


and the streets near its banks were bright and cheer- 
ful, lined with handsome houses, temples and palaces; 
but as the boys went on further from the river, the 
dwellings grew smaller and smaller, at last dwindling 
to huts made of accacia boughs and mud, with only 
here and there a more respectable building. 

Suddenly Psamtik started : a faint mew was heard, 
and a gray kitten darted from under his feet and ran 
off at full speed. Both lads glanced timidly around 
them, their brown faces turning several shades paler ; 
but no one was near, and with a sigh of relief, Psamtik 
said, 

“What a piece of good luck ! I might have killed 
the kitten ! I never saw it at all till I stepped on its 
tail.” 

The little fellows had excellent cause for fear. If 
any one in Egypt injured a cat, whether intentionally 
or otherwise, he was liable to severe punishment; 
whoever killed one was put to death. No throwing 
stones at poor puss or ill-treatment of her of any 
kind was allowed there. Nay, if fire broke out in a 
house, the Egyptians saved their cats before trying to 
extinguish the flames. 


BOYS B. C. 


Bubares shrugged his shoulders : “ Ugh, my back 

is sore yet from the beating my father gave me a 
week ago because, while running across the court- 
yard to get my ball, I tripped and fell on our old 
Mau. How she did mew ! She limped for three 
days after. Wasn’t I frightened? Psamtik,” — he 
lowered his voice and looked cautiously around to 
be sure he was not overheard, — “I wish they’d all 
go to the temple of Bast* and stay there.” 

“ Oh, hush, hush, Bubares ! if anybody should 
hear— ” 

Before he could finish the sentence the two boys 
turned the corner of the deserted street, and entered 
a square, surrounded by open booths, where carpen- 
ters, tailors, joiners, weavers, butchers and bakers 
were all pursuing their various trades. 

Some of the bakers’ men were busily kneading 
dough, using their feet for the coarser kinds of bread 
and their hands for the finer. Others were drawing 
from the oven loaves both round and square, and 


*Bast was the goddess to whose temple, every year at the time of her great 
festival, the Egyptians were allowed to take the over-supply of cats, and leave 
them in the charge of the priests. She was represented with a cat’s head. 


BOYS B. C. 


small rolls baked in the shape of snails, sheep, or 
hearts. — Boys packed the bread in baskets which 
they carried on their heads to customers in different 
parts of the city. 

“ Oh, how good that smells ! ” said Bubares, as 
one of these boys passed with five baskets piled one 
above another on his head. “ Wouldn’t I like to give 
him a push and see all the bread go rolling on the 
ground ? Which kind do you like best, Psamtik ? ” 

“The snails. But I won’t say so at home, for 
they laugh and tell me I’m growing just like them, 
fat and slow. My sister Cleopatra will eat nothing 
but hearts, since it has been settled that she is to 
marry your brother Sebak.” 

“ That’s just the way with Sebak,” cried Bubares, 
laughing. “ He says the hearts are crisper than the 
snails and sheep. For my part, 1 like the sheep best. 
I wish we had — ” 

“ Quick, quick ! ” interrupted Psamtik. “ Let’s run. 
See the people crowding into the court of the little 
temple yonder. I’m afraid we’re late.” 

They darted swiftly across the square, slipped 
through the throng like eels, and entered the court 


THE BIJC' : ? TN THE STREETS INCREASED 














BOYS B. C. 


of the temple, from whence a confused noise filled 
the air — shouts of joy from the children, screams 
and angry ejaculations from men and women pushed 
rudely to and fro, and one voice, louder than all 
the others, rising above the din, as it called monoto- 
nously, 

“Come to the fore-court of the temple and see 
the great magician, endowed with wondrous power by 
Hermes, giver of all wise counsels.” 

Bubares and Psamtik made their way to the front, 
spite of many an angry push and cry of “ Out of the 
way, boy ! ” “ Why do you crowd so ? ” “ Out of the 
way, I tell you ! ” 

A man, so tall and stout that he looked almost a 
giant, stood in the court, surrounded by various 
chests and boxes, and attended by several negro 
servants. 

Snakes of different colors and sizes, but all poison- 
ous, lay in coils around his chest and limbs. 

Bowing courteously to his audience, he seized two 
of the largest, and holding them close to his face, 
teased them until they bit him so fiercely that the 
blood flowed down his cheeks. Next he took a 


BOYS B. C. 


flute and began to play. The serpents rose nearly 
erect, swayed gracefully to and fro, keeping time 
to the notes of the music, and went through the 
motions of a dance. The magician spat into their 
jaws. Instantly all grew as stiff as rods, and fling- 
ing them on the ground, where they lay motionless, 
he danced wildly among them, but carefully avoided 
touching a single snake. 

Excited by the cheers and applause of the crowd, 
he leaped higher and higher, straining every nerve 
and muscle, his eyes fairly starting from their sockets ; 
then suddenly dropping on the ground, lay as if life- 
less. 

After some minutes he uttered a low whistle. The 
snakes stirred, lifted their heads, hissed in reply, and 
creeping slowly towards their master, twined around 
his limbs and body in a network of shining coils. 
The magician continued to lie motionless for a time, 
but rose at last, gradually unwound the slimy folds 
of the reptiles, and put nearly all in the chests and 
boxes, reserving a few to wear as necklaces and 
bracelets around his throat and arms. 

Resuming his performance, he swallowed fire, danced 



the magician in the fore-court of the temple 



BOYS B. C. 


while balancing swords whose points rested in the 
hollows under his eyes, as East Indian conjurers do 
at the present day; then bending towards Bubares, 
who had forced his way with Psamtik to the very 
front rank of the throng and was eagerly watching 
the wonderful magician’s every movement, suddenly 
passed his hand over the boy’s face, saying, 

“Why, my lad, you’re fond of red ribbon. But you 
must not keep it in your nose. Here, I’ll pull it out.” 

Thereupon he began to draw yard after yard of 
bright red ribbon from the tip of Bubares’ nose, 
winding it around the lad till his brown body and 
limbs looked as if they were striped with scarlet. 

The magician next placed seven large ostrich eggs 
on the ground before him, and taking one after 
another, deftly cracked each at a single blow, releas- 
ing a pretty white pink-eyed rabbit. 

The crowd shouted with delight; but in the midst 
of the noise a terrible shriek attracted all eyes to 
Psamtik, who was hopping on one foot and scream- 
ing for help. A snake, which had evidently made 
its escape from one of the boxes, was coiled around 
the boy’s ankle, its fangs fixed in his leg. The 


BOYS B. C. 


magician hastily approached, uttered his peculiar 
whistle, and held out his hand. The reptile instantly 
left Psamtik and coiled in a living bracelet around 
its master’s muscular arm. 

“ Isis be praised ! it’s not the asp,” said the latter 
quietly. “Call a doctor; the boy won’t die if he 
has speedy help.” 

A few moments after, a tall figure clad in the 
white robes of a priest, * came to Psamtik, carefully 
examined the wound, applied an ointment, murmur- 
ing some mysterious words while binding it on, 
and said the patient must be carried home — it might 
cause inflammation if he walked. 

The magician ordered one of his negro slaves 
to lift the boy, and Bubares ran by his side to show 
the way. Passing swiftly through the streets, they 
reached a pleasant house not far from the river, 
where the negro set Psamtik down, and instantly 
disappeared, perhaps fearing the wrath of the lad’s 
father. 

There was a scene of great confusion when the 
story was told. A serpent’s bite was a terror to 


* The Egyptian physicians belonged to the caste of priests. 


BOYS B. C. 


the dwellers on the Nile, and not until the end 
of several hours, when Psamtik still protested that 
since the application of the ointment he had felt 
no pain, would the anxious mother permit the two 
boys — Bubares had obtained permission to spend 
the night wich his friend — to go to rest. 

An American boy would think Psamtik’s bed 
far from comfortable. It was simply a step, six 
feet long and two high, built of bricks. On this 
lay a wool mattress, and coverlets were heaped above, 
forming a couch which to the little Egyptians seemed 
very luxurious. They had no occasion to spend much 
time in undressing. Bubares unwound the scarlet 
ribbon which in the confusion attending Psamtik’s 
accident nobody had thought of removing, and slipped 
into bed beside his friend. 

The two lads chatted awhile about the events 
of the day, but their voices grew fainter and fainter. 
At last Bubares murmured drowsily : 

“ Psamtik, the serpent must have bitten you be- 
cause you trod on the kitten’s tail. The goddess 
Bast was angry.” 

“Hush, hush, Bubares: don’t let any one know. 


BOYS B. Co 


I will pray the great Bast to forgive me,” replied 
Psamtik. 

Silence followed. A moment more and the little 
fellows were in the land of dreams. 


A FOREIGN EMBASSY. 


"jV TESTLED in a secluded nook between two ranges 
^ of billowy hills, with one dormer window com- 
manding a bend of the Hudson, but with its ample 
porch facing the gorge which led like a steep staircase 
to the wilderness, stood for many years the hunting 
lodge of Peter Van Vechten. 

It had a wild, solitary look, and yet there were signs 
of comfort and even of luxury about the place. Its 
lonely situation might have been the choice of either 
a very happy or of a grief-stricken man. At all events 
it was the hermitage of a man who loved to live apart 
from the world. The broad carriage-drive which 
swept up to the hospitable porch was grass-grown and 
had lost all signs of ruts of wheels. Only hoof-prints 


A FOREIGN EMBASSY. 


here and there told that Peter Van Vechten was as 
fond of the hunt as ever, and that his daughter Lilian 
often rode to the hounds with him. 

He had been a kind and true father to his little 
girl, almost too indulgent for her own best good, 
parting with her company much of the time that she 
might acquire an elegant education in the city, and 
living a lonely life with only his three hounds as 
companions. At length Lilian’s education was pro- 
nounced finished, and she returned to the Lodge. 
The little window that kept watch over the Hudson 
was her own, and she would look at the passengers 
flitting by in the swift-winged schooners on their way 
to Albany or New York, for this was before the time 
of steamboats or rail-car. It was very dull at the 
Lodge, in spite of rides upon her pony, and the harp- 
sichord which her father loved to listen to in the 
evening. He had a rich full voice and sometimes 
joined her in 

“ My heart’s in the highlands.” 

He escorted her in her calls at the stately old 
manor-houses, and once in a great while a venerable 


A FOREIGN EMBASSY 


coach rattled up to their own door and a Madam 
Livingston or Van Cortland, or a Miss Verplanck 
would make a dignified visit at the Lodge. 

There were the woods for botanizing and her 
embroidery frame for rainy days, but in spite of all 
this, Lilian was discontented. She could not have 
cared greatly for her father, and yet she was jealous 
of his pets, the three great dogs with their odd names : 
Prince, Peace and Prosper; so-called, their master 
explained, because if you held fast to Principle, Peace 
and Prosperity would follow. Prince was in fact the 
leader of the little pack, and if you held him well in 
leash, the others never wandered. Peace was a quiet 
inoffensive dog, a poor hunter, with a loving disposi- 
tion and a melting eye. Old Prosper was always 
lucky, and would come leaping back with the game 
lightly, but securely held in his deep jaws, while 
Prince looked on with the air of a commanding 
general. 

Lilian wondered that her father could be so happy 
in the society of these dumb friends. His easy-going 
temper grated against her ambitious spirit. She 
chafed at the Lodge, not so much because she was 


A FOREIGN EMBASSY. 


lonely and longed for pleasant companionship, for 
friends to love, for opportunities to do good, as that 
her proud, imperious nature longed for continual 
admiration. She did not care whether anyone really 
loved her, provided she could be envied, praised and 
flattered. 

When winter began she moped and sulked, and 
fancied herself the most unhappy girl in the world, 
until early in December an invitation came from an 
aunt in Philadelphia, urging her to spend two months 
;n that city. Philadelphia was then the seat of gov- 
ernment, and a gay and fashionable centre. Lilian 
was delighted. She did not ask herself whether her 
father might not be lonely in her absence, nor did she 
for a moment suspect that he had written her aunt 
requesting this invitation — she was simply overjoyed 
to leave the Lodge and to think that new dresses and 
invitations to routs and parties awaited her. 

But even in Philadelphia Lilian was not quite 
happy. The society in which she was thrown was 
political, and young ladies were honored quite as 
much from their fathers’ positions as for their own 
grace or beauty. It was mortifying to Lilian to see 



“ GONE AWAY. 















A FOREIGN EMBASSY. 


Miss Van Rensselaer of Albany leading the contra 
dance, just because, as she told her jealous heart, 
Miss Van Rensselaer’s papa was a great man. How 
provoking, too, to count Edith Verplanck’s bouquets 
and the admirers hovering round Gertrude Van 
Cortland’s chair ! She was sure Cora Livingston’s 
entrance would not have caused such a sensation if 
her father had not recently been appointed Minister 
\o France. No one had heard of Peter Van Vechten, 
and she asked herself with tears in her eyes why her 
father had not done something to render himself 
famous and confer distinction upon his family. 

Her two months stretched into four, but she re- 
turned to the Lodge more discontented than ever. 
Her father greeted her gladly. He had employed 
himself in her absence in making alterations in the 
house which he thought would please her fancy ; and 
he proposed to invite Gertrude Van Cortland to pass 
the summer with her. Lilian declined the offer un- 
graciously, and met all her father’s efforts for her 
pleasure with an ungrateful manner which refused to 
be pleased with anything. Her father was very con- 
siderate and gentle in these days ; he did not reprove 


A FOREIGN EMBASSY. 


or reproach her, but seemed to be silently trying to 
find the way to his daughter’s heart. There was a 
tender yearning in the furtive way in which he watched 
her, a glad flushing of the cheek whenever she chanced 
to bestow on him a careless caress. He was not 
well and had given up hunting ; but he went into 
society more than formerly, and Lilian could not help 
noticing when she entered a drawing-room leaning 
upon his arm, that there was a little lull in conversa- 
tion and people looked at him admiringly. He was a 
handsome man with his abundant gray hair and fine 
soldierly figure — she contrasted him thankfully with 
stout little Mr. Van Rensselaer, and felt that she 
would be proud of him- even in a Philadelphia assem- 
blage of diplomats and dignitaries. If only she 
could hear his name called with some high-sounding 
title attached ! Perhaps it was not too late even now. 
“ Father,” she asked one day as they rode through the 
wood together, “ why don’t you go into poli- 
tics ? ” 

He leaned forward and gently caressed the head of 
one of the hounds with the handle of his riding-whip. 
“If I went into politics, Lilian,” he replied, “I would 


A FOREIGN EMBASSY. 


have to leave the Lodge and perhaps bid farewell to 
Principle, Peace and Prosperity. ,, 

Lilian thought of the words only as the names of 
the dogs. “ I don’t see why you are so attached to 
them,” she replied, “ I was so ashamed all last winter 
to have people say when I was introduced, ‘Van 
Vechten, it seems to me I knew your father — let me 

see — wasn’t he a member of Congress for ’ or 

‘are you the daughter of Colonel or of Judge Van 
Vechten.’ Then some of the Philadelphia families 
are descended from earls and dukes, and have coats 
of arms emblazoned on the panels of their coaches. 
I never could find that any of our family were noble : — 
and one or two of the girls have been to England and 
have been presented at court. Edith Verplanck 
showed me an amber satin dress she wore at a royal 
reception, to which she was invited just because her 
father had been sent on a diplomatic mission. I 
don’t seem to have anything to be proud of ! ” 

Lilian’s father glanced aside. “ I am sorry you 
have had occasion to be ashamed of your father,” he 
said quietly. 

The girl’s better nature asserted itself for the 


A FOREIGN EMBASSY. 


moment. “ I never could be ashamed of you, dear, 
kind father,” she cried impulsively. “ It is just be- 
cause you are so much more worthy than other men 
that I fret that you are not recognized. I should 
think our country would feel honored to be able to 
point to you as its minister in some European city. I 
am every bit as proud of you as Cora Livingston is 
of her father — she always looked so aggravatingly 
happy when people praised him to her.” 

“ But Lilian, if I were to be sent upon a foreign 
mission, perhaps I could not take you with me. How 
'vould you like being left behind? ” 

“ I should not mind it in the least,” Lilian exclaimed 
thoughtlessly. “ I should hear people praising you, 
and so would Cora and Gertrude and the other 
girls; and I could hold up my head with any of them.” 

“ And you would not mind if I were to spend the 
rest of my days in Turkey or India ? ” 

“You would not have to spend your whole life 
there, would you ? ” Lilian asked ; “ if you did, couldn’t 
you find some way for me to join you ? ” 

“ And leave Philadelphia ? are you sure that you 
would care to ? ” 


A FOREIGN EMBASSY. 


“ Why of course, clear father.” 

“ Even if it were a half civilized post, something 
like the Lodge ? ” 

“ Yes indeed ; and to prove it I’ll not leave you 
this winter. I am afraid I have been a selfish daugh- 
ter, and I will give up Philadelphia if you wish 
it.” 

A smile of infinite content crossed Peter Van 
Vechten’s face, but he shook his head. “ No, no, 
the sacrifice would be too great — you enjoy Phila- 
delphia even though you are not a grandee’s daughter, 
and you shall go again this winter.” 

Lilian had forgotten this conversation, when just 
before leaving for her second winter with her aunt, as 
the stage was climbing the hill and the servant carry- 
ing out her little cow-skin covered trunk and well 
corded cedarn boxes, her father took her hand and 
spoke hurriedly as though moved by sudden impulse : 
“ And Lilian one last word : if I should obtain a 
foreign mission and go away — I know you love me 
child, but don’t grieve — I’ll manage some way to 
send for you, so be glad of my promotion.” 

Lilian was delighted ; was it possible that her 


A FOREIGN EMBASSY. 


father was keeping back a secret as a glad surprise 
for her some day ! She kissed him rapturously, sprang 
into the coach, and waving a pretty silk-mittened 
hand to the lonely man standing there with the dogs 
capering about him and striving in vain to console 
him, she rolled gaily away toward Philadelphia. 

Very touching and tender were the letters which 
came to Lilian in the early winter, they were brief 
however, and infrequent, and sometimes, in a pause 
in the gay whirl of excitement in which she found 
herself, Lilian would wonder why her father wrote so 
seldom. Perhaps he was busy with negotiations in 
regard to the foreign ministry or embassy. He re- 
ferred to it sometimes in a sentence like this : 

“ Don’t be ashamed of your old father ; a prospect 
of high honor opens before him; ” or “ When I am 
gone don’t forsake Principle, and may Peace and 
Prosperity never desert you.” 

Occasionally he spoke of a “long journey;” but 
though Lilian wrote enthusiastically, or curiously, 
and begged him to confide his projects to her, he 
kept his secret well. 

One dismal day in February Lilian was quite alone. 


A FOREIGN EMBASSY. 


Her aunt was slightly ill and kept her room. A fine 
sleety rain drove against the windows, and the room 
was damp and chill. She seated herself at the harp- 
sichord and played the old melodies which her father 
loved to hear. She was singing : 

“ My heart’s in the highlands, 

My heart is not here,” 

when a servant handed her a letter. It was from 
her father, but in such a cramped and trembling 
hand that she hardly recognized it. 

“ Dearest Lilian, (it ran) 

The message has come at last. I have received my commis- 
sion, and must leave soon for a far country. I have dreaded the 
passage, but now I am contented. I long only to see you before 
I go. I fear that you may be unhappy without me; but be com- 
forted — we shall not be long separated. ‘ I go to prepare a 
place for you that where I am there you may be also.' Come 
quickly to bid me good-bye, for I may be summoned at any 
moment. It is a great honor, and I am very happy. Take 
care of Principle for me, and may Peace and Prosper be yours, 
always. Your loving 

Father." 


When Lilian’s aunt read the letter she looked pale 


A FOREIGN EMBASSY. 


and frightened. “ You must go at once, poor child,” 
she said. 

“Of course,” Lilian replied, and hurriedly prepared 
for her journey. How odd, she thought, that her 
father had not mentioned the name of the foreign 
country to which he was sent. No matter, it was 
enough to know that the embassy was an honorable 
and an important one. She had always been proud 
of her father; she was not surprised that he should 
be chosen for such a mission ; and now her delighted 
imagination pictured the homage which she would 
receive as the daughter of a foreign minister. Her 
father need not have feared that she would miss 
him — she had grown accustomed to their separation 
and it did not pain her. He had said that she should 
come too. She hoped the station would prove gay 
and interesting, one of the principal capitals of Europe, 
and she almost regretted her rash expression of wil- 
lingness to follow her father to some remote exile. 

The stage left her at the wayside tavern a half a 
mile from the Lodge. She was surprised not to find 
her father here to meet her, and questioned the inn- 
keeper, who seemed embarrassed at meeting her. 


A FOREIGN EMBASSY. 


“Your father has gone away, Miss,” he stammered. 

“ Is it possible ? ” Lilian cried ; “ am I too late ? 
He must have been sent for suddenly.” 

“Yes Miss, he was took very sudden, at the last,” 
replied the man. 

There was nothing to do but to climb the hill, vexed 
that she had had her journey for nothing, and won- 
dering what messages her father might have left for 
her with the housekeeper. 

As she opened the gate, Peace laid his great muzzle 
affectionately against her hand, and Prince leaped 
joyfully; but old Prosper only looked toward the 
house and howled. So preoccupied was she with her 
own thoughts that it was not until she stood upon the 
very threshold that she noticed a long scarf of crape 
which fluttered from the knocker. 

Then all the awful force of the words, “ Gone 
uway,” struck the girl. Her grief was intensified by 
her remorse for her selfish behavior, and for a time 
she wept for her father as one who could not be com- 
forted. He had been very ill, so the housekeeper 
told her, all winter ; but he would not allow any one 
to alarm Lilian. He wrote to her from time to time 


A FOREIGN EMBASSY. 


when quite unable to do so. He spoke of her lov- 
ingly but refused to have her sent for. 

He had said once, after reading one of her eager 
questioning letters asking where he was going, “Tell 
her this is the guide-book. She will find the city all 
described here.” 

Lilian took up the worn Bible and found a mark at 
the passage : 

“Eye hath not seen , nor ear heard, neither hath it en- 
tered into the heart of man , the things which God hath 
prepared for them that love Him.” 

Then ^he remembered that her father had said 
that she should join him some day, and she knew 
how little she deserved such an honor as this. She 
lacked the graces suited to the daughter of an am- 
bassador to the Heavenly City. She remembered 
that Cora Livingston had said, “I have to be very 
careful of my conduct — my father’s position de- 
mands it;” and that Edith Verplanck had told her 
that she was more frightened than glad when she 
knew that she was to be presented at court, for she 
feared that she might make some mistake in etiquette 
in the presence of the king. 


A FOREIGN EMBASSY. 


“The King of that world” — thought Lilian.- and 
she sat herself earnestly to a study of the code of 
sweet and gentle courtesy which made Christ “the 
most perfect gentleman of all time ;” and to the ac- 
quirement of accomplishments which she might carry 
with her sometime when she joined the celestial em 
bassy. Little by little the spirit of Christ grew within 
her, she became more meek and loving and trusting, 
and serving her king, she became widely known 
among the poor and suffering as the “kindly lady.” 

An embroidered satin picture, of the kind that 
were fashionable when our grandmothers were 
young, hangs still over the little mantle of the cham- 
ber overlooking the Hudson, and on a species of 
memorial tablet which adorns its centre, is delicately 

worked in faded silk this stanza : 

% 

“ My boast is not that I deduced my birth 

From kings enthroned, and rulers of the earth ; 

But higher far my proud pretentions rise, 

The child of parents passed into the skies.”* 

I talked in this room with a bent old woman, who, 
in her girlhood days had been the dressing maid of 
aged Mistress Van Vechten. “ Her senses failed 


A FOREIGN EMBASSY. 


her at the last,” said the old tiring-woman, “for 
she took a strange notion that she was the daughter 
of a foreign embassador. She grew restless like — 
and used to say that she wanted to go to ‘the em- 
bassy.’ She had always been so simple-minded and 
unostentatious that it seemed all the queerer to see 
her taking such a high fancy. The very dumb ani- 
mals loved her. I’ve heard her repeat the names of a 
pack of hounds that used to belong to her father. 
‘Peace and Prosper,’ she’d say; ‘keep Principle and 
you’ll always have Peace and Prosper.’ She was a 
dear, kind lady. The night before she left us, she 
came out of her room. ‘ Get my best brocade, 
Calisty,’ says she, ‘ I am going to the embassy. My 
white brocade with the gold-thread figure — I must 
look my best — in the presence of the king.’ Then 
she let me put her to bed as peaceable as a child ; 
but about midnight she sat up. ‘ It’s my turn, Cal- 
isty,’ she cried, her voice all trembling with happi- 
ness, ‘it’s my turn, — didn’t you hear the usher call 
Ambassador Van Vechten’s daughter?’ ” 

“ I lighted a candle as quick as I could ; the dear 
soul was gone.” 


A QUEER LETTER CARRIER. 


M OST children have seen a United States post- 
man, with his plain uniform and letter-bag. 
The letter carrier’s quick step, too, you have noticed, 
as if he were walking for a prize. 

* 

Now I will tell you of a postman who wore no 
uniform, never uttered a word to any one he met, and 
always distributed his mail without being late. He 
could not read a word, and yet gave the mail to 
the right person. He had no salary, got up and went 
to bed when he pleased, and though he had not a dol- 
lar in the world, he was contented. The queerest thing 
about him is that I can’t tell you his name, nor did he 
wear a number, as some carriers do. Moreover, he car- 
ried letters in the country and not in the city ; and this, 
too, one hundred and fifty years ago. Through the 
woods he walked on his round, and if it came to be 


A QUEER LETTER CARRIER. 


dark, there were no lights to guide him. When he got 
to the place where he delivered the letters, he did not 
pull the bell with a quick jerk, as the postman does, nor 
knock, to summon some one to come and get the 
mail. If any one thanked him for the mail he brought, 
he never said, “ You’re welcome.” Altogether, as you 
must admit; he was a funny letter-man. 

But the funniest thing is that he was not a letter- 
man at all. He was a letter-dog. More than one 
hundred and fifty years ago, by the aid of the Gen- 
eral Court of Massachusetts, there was built by the 
settlers of Brunswick and Topsham (on the Andros- 
coggin River, in the district of Maine) a fort named 
Fort George, as a defence against the Indians. A 
picture of these ancient works shows that it was made 
of stone, with little windows, like port-holes, near the 
top of the walls. Within was a house, and the roof 
peers over the ramparts. A flag floats from the staff, 
and a heavy door is in the front — a point carefully 
guarded. Barracks for fifteen men were provided — a 
small force, but enough to keep the Indians at a dis- 
tance. 

About ten miles away, on the Kennebec River, was 


1HR LAST TRIP 




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A QUEER LETTER CARRIER. 


a little settlement called “ The Reach,” where now 
the city of Bath, a famous ship-building place, is 
pleasantly built along the river bank. The very few 
families living at “ The Reach ” kept up communica- 
tion with the fort, for it was their place of refuge 
in war, and supplies were to be bought there in 
quiet times. 

The mail route of the carrier I am telling you about 
was from this fort to “ The Reach,” through places 
where Indians were hidden, waiting for some white m an 
to come within reach of their arrows. The faithful dog 
would carry packages of letters from Brunswick to the 
settlement, and bring back answers. When he got to 
the house at “ The Reach,” where the mail was to 
stop, he would howl in an anxious way; then the let- 
ters would be taken from him ; but still he would wait 
and not stir until another bundle was given him — the 
parcel of mail matter for those in the fort. Then he 
would put the letters, not in a letter-bag, but in a 
place more safe — his mouth! 

Off he would start again through the lonely forest. 
Foxes and rabbits and birds might start up near him, 
but he remembered his errand, and turned neither to 


A QUEER LETTER CARRIER. 


the right nor to the left. In two hours he would cover 
the distance, and howl at the fort gate for the mail to 
be taken in. In case of great danger, when word 
would be written, the dog would always rush away as 
if he knew what was the matter ! 

I wish I could tell you that, after working hard and 
faithfully, the wise dog died quietly at home; but, 
alas ! after awhile the Indians discovered that the dog 
oft seen was conveying information from the fort to 
the houses down the river, and they soon found a 
chance to kill him. At last, one day when he was 
trotting through the thicket, holding fast to his parcel, 
a slight sound was heard, which his instinct told him 
was the light tread of a fox ; but the next instant an 
Indian burst through the underbrush, and death 
overtook him then and there! A brave man dies, 
and praise is given him long after : the trusty dog 
falls when he is doing his duty, and not even his 
name is recorded ! 


THE QUAKER WEDDING. 

1 AURING the wars with England, the inhabitants 
of Nantucket, notwithstanding their hardships 
and privations, persisted in marriages and weddings. 
Father Peleg, though he had seen two ships full-laden 
with sperm oil, belonging to “himself and sons,” 
taken by the enemy just off Great Point, never 
thought of postponing William’s marriage. The time 
for its solemnization was appointed for the “twelfth 
day of the twelfth month ” by the monthly meeting. 
That which was dictated to this “body of Friends” 
by the “moving of the spirit,” silenced all argument. 
Accordingly the nuptials of Peleg’s son and Andrew’s 
daughter were duly to be recognized. 

THE MEETING HOUSES 


used by Friends were devoid of paint, as a matter of 


THE QUAKER WEDDING. 


discipline. The interior was divided by a line of pil- 
lars, separating the half occupied by the men from 
what was denominated the “women’s part.” These 
posts were longitudinally grooved. At times of busi- 
ness, there descended straight from the heavens, the 
children believed, between every two pillars a sliding 
door, giving each sex a chance for private dis- 
cussions. 

At their public gatherings, these doors were again 
raised, every boy and girl quietly wondering how ! 
There were no Signor Blitzes in those parts; tables 
had always quietly rested on four legs, unless a caster 
was off, which was soon remedied. 

At right angles with the posts, and gradually ele- 
vated from a square in the centre of each apartment 
and terminated by the wall, were two opposing sets of 
“rising-seats.” If the simile is admissible (if not, let 
it pass) the arrangement is as that of a circus, ignor- 
ing the literal meaning of the word, and considering 
it an “oblong square.” The last sentence, although 
written, understood and countenanced by a birth-right 
member, is, it must be confessed, objectionable as a 
matter of taste. The figure holds its own. 


THE QUAKER WEDDING. 


The “rising-seats ” fronting the congregation were 
occupied by ministers, elders and overseers. On the 
ground benches sat “ members of meeting ” generally. 
On the back “ rising-seats,” facing the ministers, etc., 
sat the gay people — men who wore double-breasted 
coats ; girls with bows on their bonnets ; women who 
insisted upon carrying a closed parasol by the rightful 
handle, instead of the apex ; and those who had yet 
other worldly ways. 

On an occasion of a “marriage-in-meeting,” one of 
the overseers’ “rising-seats ” in the women’s division 
was left vacant for the “ bridal couple,” two old men 
who were to superintend the groom, and two old 
women who had the care of the bride. 

According to appointment, one cold week-day 
morning, William and Lydia walked, arm in arm, 
through a crowded assembly, to the second rising-seat 
in the Friends’ South Meeting-house. As soon as 
seated, the two old men alluded to took their places 
by William, and the two old women by Lydia. 

The twelve eyes were riveted on the floor. “At 
what are they gazing ? ” thought the young folks. 

Little Jedidah Hussey solved the question to her 


THE QUAKER WEDDING. 


own satisfaction : “they were all watching a winter fly, 
which they feared might come to life and disturb one 
of the folds in Lydia’s shawl, and it would be such a 
shame ! ” 

Jedidah must be excused, for she belonged to a 
Presbyterian family. She had never been to a Quuker 
meeting before, or she would have known that the 
eight eyes were intent on the “inner light,” while the 
other four were cast down by the weight of the im- 
pending silence, their owners respectively trying to 
recite their role. 


THE SIGNAL. 

It is incumbent upon the Friend who sits next to 
the young man, when in his judgment the minute 
has arrived for the ceremony to begin, to signify the 
same to the groom. This is brought about by a 
slight touch of the arm. William, being on the look- 
out for this, as the time draws near clears his throat 
repeatedly; looks up inquiringly and defiantly, al- 
most with a nod, at the junction of the ceiling with 
the wall at the farthest end of the room, as if calcu- 


THE QUAKER WEDDING. 


lating some patent improvement. Suddenly he is in- 
terested in the nails of the floor. He counts them : 
first down ; then up ; then across ; half diagonally ; 
and whole ditto. Finally, to verify his mathematics 
and to prove his entire calmness, he ascertains the 
number of rows and the units in each row, and is 
about to get the product, when the dreaded sign is 
given. 

He has half a mind to rub his crazy-bone, as 
though the nudge has fallen on a tender spot, thereby 
showing the audience his stoicism. Instead of which 
the color leaves his lips as he attempts to get up. 
He reaches for the right hand of the bride, to aid the 
weaker vessel to find her feet. 

Lydia, on the other side, persists in extending the 
left; knows confidently that the “left was the right” 
when they practised the night before, and the week 
before, and the month before. The stronger sex 
gains, at last; with right hands joined they rise and 
face the — (Query : What ?) 

They pause a moment; Jedidah thinks, “in order 
to give the girls a chance to see what the bride was 
dressed in.” 


THE QUAKER WEDDING. 


As to that, the groom’s attire would bear scrutiny. 
Thus : wash-leather short-clothes, silver knee-buckles, 
rose-colored silk stockings reaching to the knees, 
black swallow-tail coat, white vest (material — lost to 
tradition) and, to crown the whole, a “broad brim” 
which was studiously kept on the head during the 
whole meeting. 

Bride’s : Pearl-colored silk skirt and wrapper — the 
former open in front disclosing an apron of the same 
fabric, just one shade deeper; on her head the prim- 
mest of prim “ pleater ” (no ! plaiter is not the right ! 
what do modern spelling-matches know of bonnets 
worn by original Friends!) — and over her shoulders 
was thrown (thrown ! indeed ! rather put on with 
line and plummet and level and a little mariner’s 
compass ! ) a book-muslin kerchief. 

THE CEREMONY. 

In this garb they address the meeting. He speaks 
first — that is, he shall speak when he gets ready ; 
always did have his own way, and guesses he shan’t 
alter just now; has some idea of saying, in a jocose 



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* 




THE QUAKER WEDDING. 


way to the congregation, that he shall “bide his 
time ; ” wishes he hadn’t sat in that draft and got cold 
in his limbs, which makes his knees shake, though 
nothing new. At length, throat effectually cleared, 
he declares in a voice of thunder that he takes Lydia 
to be his wife. His tones come out on the last two 
or three words with a bound so loud that it is evident, 
he thinks, to the audience, how self-possessed he is. 

The bride then repeats the same, telling them in a 
“confidential whisper” that she takes William to be 
her husband. 

The latter is quite relieved when Lydia gets to the 
period; his only fear had been for days, that she 
would break down. He winks at her to that effect 
as they resume their seats. She looks no response, 
though she did know that the voice in which her 
husband went through his part was one totally new 
and strange to her. (This secret she kept inviolate 
till the twenty-fifth anniversary of their wedding-day.) 

As the couple sat down, the strangers rose to de- 
part, when the rustling of paper brought them into 
quiet again. A certificate of great dimensions was 
handed to the couple for them to sign in their new 


THE QUAKER WEDDING. 


relation, setting forth what had taken place. When 
William took the parchment he examined it thoroughly, 
determined to know to what he was about to put his 
name. No one of the congregation suspected that he 
had hired Seth Gardner to copy this document (Seth 
wrote German text like a native), and that he and 
Lydia had viewed it again and again ; had even tried 
holding a pen over the “places elect” of their names, 
that nothing should be imperfectly done on the day of 
the marriage. But, alas ! they had never spoken in 
meeting before, and the rehearsing went for very 
little. They signed ; he his old name, she her new. 

There were those who said “ if Lydia had removed 
her right kid, which extended to the elbow, the play 
of the fore-arm and the freedom of the thimble-finger 
would have given an ease to her handwriting which 
was entirely omitted.” But there always are fault- 
finders ! 

After the above signatures were obtained, the cer- 
tificate was read to the meeting at large by the clerk 
of the men’s part, who took his stand on the women’s 
side of the posts. The autograph of the crowd was 
then allowed. 


THE QUAKER WEDDING. 


A silence ensued, less anxious than that which pre- 
ceded the ceremony ; a “ refreshing season ” ! One 
aged man felt moved to give the newly married 
couple his sympathy. 

A few more moments of intense hush, when the 
head of each department, simultaneously inspired to 
shake hands each with the other, performed this feat 
across the dividing pilaster, as a signal that “ meeting 
was out/’ 

THE FEAST. 

No more interesting sight can be found than that 
of a long table spread in a Quaker’s side-room, sur- 
rounded by youth and maidens in the simple dress of 
the sect. That day two tables were arranged for 
the guests. The bride and groom, both under twenty- 
one years of age, yet being married, must sit with the 
elder and more staid persons. At their table, the 
drab coat prevailed, the muslin cap neatly pinned be- 
neath the chin, and the silk mit. The old men’s 
neckerchiefs seemed to preserve an unparalleled par- 
allelism. The end of Jacob’s tie protruded a half- 
inch from the knot. The end of Benjamin’s tie pro- 


THE QUAKER WEDDING. 


truded a half-inch from the knot. The same of 
Laban’s, the same of every other. Each man spread 
a large red bandanna over his knees ; every woman a 
substantial Irish-linen pocket handkerchief in her lap. 
A beautiful picture ! The table itself was appointed 
with the real “ dark blue ” direct from Canton, heavy 
silver, and cut-glass from the old country ; no plated 
ware ! no burglars ! 

The other table was surrounded by the young of 
both sexes — the boys with hair uniformly cut in 
“ bowl-fashion ; ” nothing more nor less than the 
“bang” of to-day, if spoken aside. The faces of' 
the girls peeped out of the sheerest round-eared caps 
that you ever saw ; the white of the muslin only add- 
ing to the innocence of the visage, and bringing out, 
in a stronger light, the lurking fun of sweet sixteen. 

Before “ Friends ” commenced eating, a long and 
painful silence was the law. Quaker girls and boys 
have the giggle in them, and after being pent up, it is 
very apt to break out into “ an amusement.” The 
author of the last sentence knows her subject ; no 
contradiction is in order. So that the youth’s table, as 
soon as the quiet abated, was, “ within bounds,” lively. 


THE QUAKER WEDDING. 


Dinner over, a few additional guests arrived. At 
candle-light, the tables were again laid. Best of 
Hyson tea, delicious biscuits, plum-cake and “hearts 
and rounds ” (a Nantucket institution) were served. 
Tea over, yet a few more persons appeared for the 
evening ; these were generally the “ must-be-noticed ” 
class. Having been put through this ordeal many 
times, as giver and receiver, each one understood the 
honor, but no one remained at home through ill- 
nature. Before the clock finished striking eight, 
there was handed round a large waiter holding at 
least forty-eight wine-glasses, each glass just two- 
thirds full of “ home-made currant-juice.” The young 
men and women of the family were taught to say, “ Not 
any for me, I’m ’bliged to thee.” That fashion of 
passing wine, Authority is happy to remark, has long 
since had the go-by ; and, if anything as the evening 
beverage is desired at a Friends’ wedding better than 
cold water, a little raspberry syrup supplies the defi- 
ciency. 

At nine o’clock precisely, the guests, all three vari- 
eties, departed. The wedding was over. 


BABOUSCKA. 



OUT OF BREATH, TIRED, YET HUR- 
RYING ON. 


r F you were a Russian 
child you would 
not watch to see Santa 
Klaus come down the 
chimney ; but you would 
stand by the windows 
to catch a peep at poor 
Babouscka as she hur- 
ries by. 

Who is Babouscka ? Is 
she Santa Klaus’ wife? 

No, indeed. She is 
only a poor little crook- 
ed wrinkled old woman, 
who comes at Christmas 
time into everybody’s 
house, who peeps into 
every cradle, turns back 
every coverlid, drops a 
tear on the baby’s white 


BABOUSCKA. 


pillow, and goes away very, very sorrowful. 

And not only at Christmas time, but through 
all the cold winter, and especially in March, 
when the wind blows loud, and whistles and 
howls and dies away like a sigh, the Russian 
children hear the rustling step of the Babouscka. 
She is always in a hurry. One hears her running 
fast along the crowded streets and over the quiet coun- 
try fields. She seems to be out of breath and tired, 
yet she hurries on. 

Whom is she trying to overtake ? 

She scarcely looks at the little children as they 
press their rosy faces against the window pane and 
whisper to each other, “ Is the Babouscka looking 
for us?” 

No, she will not stop ; only on Christmas eve will 
she come up-stairs into the nursery and give each 
little one a present. You must not think ghe leaves 
handsome gifts such as Santa Klaus brings for you. 
She does not bring bicycles to the boys or French 
dolls to the girls. She does not come in a gay little 
sleigh drawn by reindeer, but hobbling along on foot, 
and she leans on a crutch. She has her old apron 


BABOUSCKA. 


filled with candy and cheap toys, and the children all 
love her dearly. They watch to see her come, and 
when one hears a rustling, he cries, “ Lo ! the Ba- 
bouscka ! ” then all others look, but one must turn 
one’s head very quickly or she vanishes. I never 
saw her myself. 

Best of all, she loves little babies, and often, when 
the tired mothers sleep, she bends over their cradles, 
puts her brown, wrinkled face close down to the pil- 
low and looks very sharply. 

What is she looking for ? 

Ah, that you can’t guess unless you know her sad 
story. 

Long, long ago, a great many yesterdays ago, the 
Babouscka, who was even then an old woman, was 
busy sweeping her little hut. She lived in the cold- 
est corner of cold Russia, and she lived alone in a 
lonely place where four wide roads met. These 
roads were at this time white with snow, for it was 
winter time. In the summer, when the fields were 
full of flowers and the air full of sunshine and sing- 
ing birds, Babouscka’s home did not seem so very 
quiet; but in the winter, with only the snow-flakes 


BABOUSCKA. 


and the shy snow-birds and the loud wind for com- 
pany, the little old woman felt very cheerless. But 
she was a busy old woman, and as it was already 
twilight, and her home but half swept, she felt in a 
great hurry to finish her work before bed-time. You 
must know the Babouscka was poor and could not 
afford to do her work by candle-light. 

Presently, down the widest and the lonesomest of 
the white roads, there appeared a long train of people 
coming. They were walking slowly, and seemed to 
be asking each other questions as to which way they 
should take. As the procession came nearer, and 
finally stopped outside the little hut, Babouscka was 
frightened at the splendor. There were Three 
Kings, with crowns on their heads, and the jewels on 
the Kings’ breastplates sparkled like sunlight. Their 
heavy fur cloaks were white with the falling snow- 
flakes, and the queer humpy camels on which they 
rode looked white as milk in the snow-storm. The 
harness on the camels was decorated with gold, and 
plates of silver adorned the saddles. The saddle- 
cloths were of the richest Eastern stuffs, and all the ser- 
vants had the dark eyes and hair of an Eastern people. 


BABOUSCKA. 


The slaves carried heavy loads on their backs, and 
each of the Three Kings carried a present. One 
carried a beautiful transparent jar, and in the fading 
light Babouscka could see in it a golden liquid which 
she knew from its color must be myrrh. Another 
had in his hand a richly woven bag, and it seemed to 
be heavy, as indeed it was, for it was full of gold. 
The third had a stone vase in his hand, and from the 
rich perfume which filled the snowy air, one could 
guess the vase to have been filled with incense. 

Babouscka was terribly frightened, so she hid her- 
self in her hut, and let the servants knock a long 
time at her door before she dared open it and an- 
swer their questions as to the road they should take 
to a far-away town. You know she had never stud- 
ied a geography lesson in her life, was old and stu 
pid and scared. She knew the way across the fields 
to the nearest village, but she knew nothing else of 
all the wide world full of cities. The servants 
scolded, but the Three Kings spoke kindly to her, 
and asked her to accompany them on their journey 
that she might show them the way as far as she knew 
it. They told her, in words so simple that she could 


BABOUSCKA. 


not fail to understand, that they had seen a Star in 
the sky and were following it to a little town where a 
young Child lay. The snow was in the sky now, 
and the Star was lost out of sight. 

“Who is the Child?” asked the old woman. 

“ He is a King, and we go to worship him,” they 
answered. “ These presents of gold, frankincense and 
myrrh are for Him. When we find Him we will take 
the crowns off our heads and lay them at His feet. 
Come with us, Babouscka ! ” 

What do you suppose ? Shouldn’t you have 
thought the poor little woman would have been glad 
to leave her desolate home on the plains to accom- 
pany these Kings on their journey ? 

But the foolish woman shook her head. No, the 
night was dark and cheerless, and her little home 
was warm and cosy. She looked up into the sky, 
and the Star was nowhere to be seen. Besides, she 
wanted to put her hut in order — perhaps she would 
be ready to go to-morrow. But the Three Kings 
could not wait; so when to-morrow’s sun rose they 
were far ahead on their journey. It seemed like a 
dream to poor Babouscka, for even the tracks of the 


BABOUSCKA. 


camels’ feet were covered by the deep white snow. 
Everything was the same as usual ; and to make sure 
that the night’s visitors had not been a fancy, she 
found her old broom hanging on a peg behind the 
door, where she had put it when the servants 
knocked. 

Now* that the sun was shinmg, and she remem- 
bered the glitter of the gold and the smell of the 
sweet gums and myrrh, she wished she had gone 
with the travellers. 

And she thought a great deal about the little 
Baby the Three Kings had gone to worship. She 
had no children of her own — nobody loved her — 
ah, if she had only gone ! The more she brooded 
on the thought, the more miserable she grew, till the 
very sight of her home became hateful to her. 

It is a dreadful feeling to realize that one has lost 
a chance of happiness. There is a feeling called 
remorse that can gnaw like a sharp little tooth. 
Babouscka felt this little tooth cut into her heart 
every time she remembered the visit of the Three 
Kings. 

After a while the thought of the Little Child 


BABOUSCKA. 


became her first thought at waking and her last at 
night. One day she shut the door of her house for- 
ever, and set out on a long journey. She had no 
hope of overtaking the Three Kings, but she longed 
to find the Child, that she too might love and 
worship Him. She asked every one she met, and 
some people thought her crazy, but others gave her 
kind answers. Have you perhaps guessed that the 
young Child whom the Three Kings sought was our 
Lord himself? 

People told Babouscka how He was born in a 
manger, and many other things which you children 
have learned long ago. These answers puzzled the 
old dame mightily. She had but one idea in her 
ignorant head. The Three Kings had gone to seek 
a Baby. She would, if not too late, seek Him too. 

She forgot, I am sure, how many long years had 
gone by. She looked in vain for the Christ-child in 
His manger-cradle. She spent all her little savings 
in toys and candy so as to make friends with little 
children, that they might not run away when she came 
hobbling into their nurseries. 

Now you know for whom she is sadly seeking 


BABOUSCKA. 


when she pushes back the bed-curtains and bends 
down over each baby’s pillow. Sometimes, when the 
old grandmother sits nodding by the fire, and the 
bigger children sleep in their beds, old Babouscka 
comes hobbling into the room, and whispers softly, 
“ Is the young Child here ? ” 

Ah, no ; she has come too late, too late. But the 
little children know her and love her. Two thousand 
years ago she lost the chance of finding Him. 
Crooked, wrinkled, old, sick and sorry, she yet lives 
on, looking into each baby’s face — always disap- 
pointed, always seeking. Will she find Him at 
last? 


LADY GODIVA. 


T T AVE you ever heard of Coventry, an old town 
* not very far from London, where some of the 
streets are so narrow that no wagons can pass through 
them, and where the second stories of the quaint old 
mansions jut over so far into the streets that they 
almost touch each other ? 

It was a lovely morning in September. We had 
come from busy London, that immense city where 
Dne million people every year ride in the many rail- 
roads that are made under the houses, saying nothing 
of the millions who throng the streets above ground. 

All the people know Americans at sight, and they 
looked at us as carefully as we at them. First we 
went to a tall church that Sir Christopher Wren, the 


LADY GODIVA. 


great architect, said was a masterpiece. Its tower and 
spire alone are three hundred and three feet high : that 
is about three times as high as the State House in 
Boston. The church was built nearly four hundred 
years before Columbus discovered America, and was 
given by a. great earl to the monks — it is Protestant 
now — for “the repose of his soul.” I suppose that 
means that he might get safely to Heaven. 

But the thing which most interested us about Cov- 
entry was that here once lived a sweet and beautiful 
lady about whom the people never tire of telling you. 

She was the wife of an earl who governed Coven- 
try. He was immensely rich, but he taxed his sub- 
jects so that petitions came in every day to have 
them lowered. Finally, as all their beseeching did 
no good, the poor people came to his wife, Lady 
Godiva, to beg her to intercede for them. Her heart 
was touched, and she went to her husband, but he 
was angry, and bade her never to speak of it 
again. 

Several months went by. He had been away to 
some wars in the northern part of England, and com- 
ing home, was so delighted to meet his wife and 


LADY GODIVA. 


darling little boy, that he clasped them both to his 
heart, asking her if she needed anything to complete 
her happiness. She had money, an elegant home, 
and lived like a queen, but she could not be happy. 
She said, “While our people groan under oppression, 
the most luxurious entertainment can afford me no 
real enjoyment.” 

Leofric, her husband, again became violently 
angry, but said, since he had promised to do what 
she wished, he would keep his word ; but she must 
ride on horseback, at noonday, from one end of the 
city to the other, with no clothing upon her. He 
supposed of course that she would never consent to 
this. For a moment, her noble womanly heart sank 
within her, and then she said, “ I will go.” 

Seeing that her mind was made up, he ordered all 
the people to darken the fronts of their houses, and 
retire to the back parts of them, while the devoted 
lady took her lonely ride. When the appointed day 
came, the whole city was as still as death. Lady 
Godiva’s beautiful white horse was brought to the 
palace. With a face as blanched as her charger, 
drawing 'her long dark hair like a scarf about her 


LADY GODIVA. 


body, she mounted, and rode in solemn silence 
through all the principal streets. No sound was 
heard save that of the horse’s hoofs, as the grateful 
people waited for their burdens to be lifted. 

And when the ride was over, and the people 
opened their doors and unbarred their windows, a 
great cry of rejoicing went up from thousands, for 
Coventry was free. Lady Godiva, after founding 
several churches, died about the year 1059. 

Every three or four years in Coventry a quaint pro- 
cession still takes place in honor of this noble act of 
devotion to her people. The City Guard and High 
Constable lead the column. Then follows a beautiful 
woman clothed in a white linen dress, fitted close to 
her body, with long hair floating about her, and a 
large bunch of flowers in her hand, riding on a cream- 
colored horse. On either side of her are two city 
officials, dressed in green and scarlet. Two men 
come next bearing the sword and mace, emblems of 
the high authority of the mayor, followed by the 
mayor himself in his scarlet robes, trimmed with fur, 
wearing a cocked hat, and carrying a white wand in 
his hand. Then come the Sheriffs in their black 


LADY GODIVA. 


gowns ; all the different trades of the city ; the Odd 
Fellows, Foresters, and other benevolent societies. 

The principal characters of ihe snow are attended 
by beautiful children in costly habits, riding on 
horseback. These children are so small that they 
are obliged to sit in basket-work seats, which are 
fastened to the horses’ backs. The men who lead the 
horses, walk without their coats, and are decorated 
with a Drofusion of ribbons. 


MOOLEY. 


OMEWHAT more than a hundred years ago, 



* s — " good Farmer Whitney, who lived in the little town 
of Spencer, in Massachusetts, found a new calf in his 
barn one April morning. The farmer looked at it, de- 
clared it a “likely heifer,” and went in to tell the good 
news to his family. They all went to the barn at 
once — little Cyrus and Ben and John, and Dame 
Whitney with baby Lem in her arms. 

Little Mooley stood by her mother quite bewil- 
dered at the number of her lively visitors. They ad- 
mired her clear bright eyes, her brown dewy nose, 
shining coat and waxen hoofs ; they patted her head, 
felt for her horns, and were delighted with the little 
white star in her forehead. She was pronounced “ a 
very good calf.” People in those days did not call 
everything which pleased them spJejidid , or superb , or 


MOOLEY. 


magnificent, as modern talkers do ; these subjects of 
King George simply said Mooley was “a good calf ” 
— and so she was. 

In a few days Mooley was taught to drink ; Dame 
Whitney herself gave her her first lessons, after which 
she was left to the care of Cyrus, who was a “ master 
hand with cattle,” his father said. Cyrus brought in 
armfuls of the sweetest hay, and steeped it in water, to 
which he added a little meal and milk ; for the poor 
calf had to share her mother’s milk with the four little 
Whitneys. They with the neighbors’ children played 
and romped with her sometimes, pulled her the ten- 
derest grass, led her to water, taught her odd tricks ; 
and one day when Cyrus and his father were out in 
the pasture they all heard the loud booming of the 
guns of Bunker Hill. 

When Mooley was a well-grown heifer Mr. Whitney 
sold his farm and went to Talland, Connecticut. 
All their goods were packed upon an ox-cart, where 
the mother and baby, and sometimes one of the 
younger children, rode. The others, with the father 
and the live stock, Mooley among the rest, took up 
their line of march, on foot, toward their new home. 


MOOLEY. 


Once there, Mooley was left more than ever in 
Cyrus’ care ; for Mr. and Mrs. W. were engaged in 
making saltpetre, by leaching the earth dug from un- 
der old buildings, for the supply of gunpowder for the 
Federal army. 

At last, one morning when Cyrus came down the 
ladder from the loft where he slept, he found his 
father preparing to go to war, while his mother stood 
before the fire which blazed in the wide chimney, 
turning her “ nut-cakes ” in the hissing fat, and 
proudly brushing away her tears. 

Breakfast over, the good wife gave her “minute- 
man ” a last drink of Mooley’s milk, filled his knap- 
sack with her cakes, and turned to her saltpetre 

works wi:h more zeal than ever; for she was a reso- 

% 

lute, fiery-hearted woman who loved her family and 
hated the king with equal fervor. 

Even those who can remember the last war can 
have little idea of what our ancestors suffered during 
those sad seven years. Cyrus and his mother weeded 
the garden, fed the poultry, milked the cows — did 
their best. One day a hoop came off from the milk- 
pail — a milk-pail in those days was a clumsy affair 


MOOLEY. 


with wooden hoops, looking more like a mackerel kit 
than a modern milk-pail, Mr. Whitney could easily 
have put on another hoop if he had been at home ; 
but there was no one to do it now, as the cooper also 
had gone to war. So Mrs. W. sadly set the pail 
away and took the cream-pot, a wide-mouthed brown 
earthen jar, to the barn to milk in. She strained her 
milk into thick, heavy pans, earthen like the cream- 
pot, and skimmed it with a clam-shell. One night, I 
am sorry to say, Mooley kicked the cream-pot over, 
and while it went rolling across the barnyard she 
scampered away. 

Poor Mrs. Whitney sat still on her milking-stool 
and cried ! The children gathered round her : “ It 
is not broken,” they said consolingly. “Only a little 
milk is spilled ! ” “ ’Taint broke !” “ ’Taint broke, 
inarm ! ” 

“But it might have been,” sobbed the poor, tired, 
troubled woman, as she prepared to pursue Mooley. 
To replace the pot would indeed have been a hard 
matter. 

Mr. Whitney returned in a few months, and as it 
was becoming hard to get the earth for making salt- 


MOOLEY. 


petre, and as many of his neighbors were going to 
Vermont, he set off on foot to see the new State. He 
was not gone long, for it is said he walked eighty 
miles some days between the rising and setting of the 
sun. 

He was much pleased with the new country, and 
the family again prepared to move. I think, children, 
you could hardly keep from laughing, spite of your 
efforts to be polite, if you saw such a caravan coming. 

In front of the ox-load of furniture was a seat 
where some of them rode, and behind was strapped a 
coop with some fowls in it. Mrs. Whitney rode on 
horseback with a child behind her, and a baby in her 
arms. Then there were two colts which Cyrus led 
most of the way, and a few sheep, and Mooley and 
her calves, which Ben and John helped to drive. 
The entire family were dressed in warm woollen gar- 
ments which Dame Whitney had made ; carded, spun, 
and woven the cloth from the wool shorn from their 
own sheep, and then cut the garments, and made them 
with thread of her spinning. Cyrus and his father 
wore in addition short buckskin breeches buckled at 
the knee. 


MOOLEY. 


Securely hidden in the midst of the load was one 
of Mr. Whitney’s long blue woollen stockings, knit to 
come above the knee, tied up full of Spanish dollars. 
“ Not much march money,” I hear some banker’s boy 
say ; but it was more than most of the settlers carried 
with them, and quite sufficient to make them a well- 
to-do family in the new town where they were going. 

Mrs. Whitney also carried with great care the 
seeds of catnip and burdock and mullein and other 
weeds which are now the pest of the Vermont farm- 
ers. Indeed, many of the weeds we now despise 
were in those days highly prized as medicines ; and 
every house-mother who went into the new country 
carried with her not only bags of dried herbs, but 
parcels of seeds to make sure the next year’s supply. 
Few doctors had yet gone to the new settlement, and 
people were too poor to employ them except in 
severest cases of sickness. 

Thus these people took their way over rough 
roads and through unbridged streams, more than a 
hundred miles, in the bleak weather of December, 
1780, just one hundred years ago! I suppose they 
got very cold and tired ; but they stopped at night at 


MOOLEY. 


the little country taverns, cared for their animals as 
best they could, ate their own luncheon, and drank 
a little milk which Mooley gave. 

They found a pleasant home in Vermont. A new 
house was built, and a barn for Mooley and her 
calves — some of them grown to cows and oxen. 
Doubtless Mooley now thought she was settled for 
life ; but, the war over, the settlers again became 
restless, and one morning Mr. Whitney came in to 
say that Mr. Dee wanted to buy Mooley. 

“ Buy Mooley ? ” they all exclaimed indignantly. 

They were told that Mr. Dee was going to Cape 
Breton Island with his family, and they wanted 
Mooley for the milk supply and because she was 
known to be a good traveller. 

So, although the children cried and Madam 
Whitney’s stiff-starched cap-border fairly crackled 
with indignation, Mooley was sold ; and they saw 
her trudge off toward the isle of Cape Breton — look 
on your maps and see where that is. 

The Whitney children thereafter got a scanty sup- 
ply of milk from a sheep, whose lamb they fed with 
bread and potatoes. This partly consoled them, and 


MOOLEY. 


Madam Whitney was very glad to have a little 
money to help the new church of which Mr. Whitney 
had just been made deacon ; but still they all often 
thought and longed to hear of Mooley. 

Postal communication was almost impossible in 
those days ; postage was very high, and post-offices 
rare in the thinly settled parts of the country. Cards 
were unheard of, letters seldom written. When let- 
ters were written they were carried to the tavern and 
thrust behind strips of basket-stuff tacked to the wall 
in the bar-room ; and travellers were accustomed to 
look over these letters and carry along those which 
were to go on their route, as far as possible, and leave 
them at the nearest tavern, when some other traveller 
would take them. Think of that, children, who send 
letters to your friends in California in less than a week ! 

In this way, or some other, Mrs. Whitney heard, a 
year after Mooley went away, that she arrived safe in 
Cape Breton Island, and was again a loyal subject of 
King George III. 


THE GIRL THAT HAD PA- 
TIENCE TO PRACTISE. 


I HATE him! Yes, I do! and I never will take 
another lesson ! See if I do ! ” This was said 
with emphasis. 

Mrs. Gordon looked out of the parlor window to 
find that the speaker was her own little daughter. 
Madge was a bright, active girl with lovely chestnut 
hair, blue eyes and red cheeks. A pet at home and a 
favorite at school, it was not strange that she was im- 
perious ; she enjoyed music, but she “hated practice.” 

Mrs. Gordon looked thoughtful. She desired 
Madge to become an accurate musician, and she felt 
that Professor Dartrum was a judicious teacher. A 
moment later the parlor door was pushed open and 


THE GIRL THAT HAD PATIENCE TO PRACTISE. 


Madge stood there. There was a look of defiance in 
her deep blue eyes. 

“ Let us hear all about it,” said Mrs. Gordon, mak- 
ing a place for Madge and her two young friends on 
the sofa. Then followed a brief narration of the very 
strict rules, and the torture to which she was every 
day subject. 

“ Miss Craven is not half as strict — say I may take 
of Miss Craven, mamma ! ” Madge concluded. 

For answer Mrs. Gordon said very gently, “ Before 
we decide let me narrate something that I have read 
of a young girl whose teacher was far more exacting 
than Professor Dartrum.” 

“ That could never be ! ” exclaimed Madge. 

“ Will you have the story ? ” 

“Yes, yes ! ” cried three voices in chorus. 

“As I shall leave you to guess the name of the 
young girl, you will need to pay particular attention,” 
continued Mrs. Gordon. “ The sleepy old place in 
which our heroine lived, possibly had something to do 
in fostering the love of music in her breast until it burst 
into a flame bright enough to illumine two continents.” 

Here Madge felt that she had guessed the name. 


THE GIRL THAT HAD PATIENCE TO PRACTISE. 


“ This sleepy old town,” continued Mrs. Gordon, 
“had a theatre where the little girl was accustomed to 
go with her father. He was flute-player in the thea- 
tre, and organist in the famous old cathedral. At last, 
from following the musicians so closely, she longed 
to play herself. The flute did not suit her small 
mouth; but the violin — yes, she would have a violin ! 

“ ‘ A violin ! nothing could be more absurd,’ her 
relatives declared ; and aunt Caroline insisted that 
her father must not indulge the child in this way — 
only boys played violins. However, this little girl 
kept on asking, and at last her father brought home 
the smallest violin that he could possibly buy. And 
now for lessons ! M. Simon, the teacher, lived a good 
distance away. It did not matter : three times a 
week she took the long walk through the Rue Voltaire 
across the crowded Place where the theatre stood, past 
the handsome stores and over the bridge, and then 
along a narrow street till the gray towers of the old 
chateau came in sight. 

“ First she must learn to stand — now to rest on 
her left foot with the right partly in front ; then how 
to hold her violin — how it should rest on her shoul- 


THE GIRL THAT HAD PATIENCE TO PRACTISE. 


der and how to grasp and support it. Hold it per- 
fectly still for ten minutes ! Then lay it down for a 
few minutes’ rest ! Take it up again and hold it firm ! 

“ Patiently now she bent her small fingers over the 
strings, as if to touch a chord — head erect, left arm 
bent and brought forward so that she could see her 
elbow under the violin. Then she must stand per- 
fectly still with the right arm hanging down naturally. 
No bow, of course. She must first learn to sustain the 
weight of the violin and accustom her arm to its 
shape. In silence, and motionless, she held the in- 
strument. 

“For two or three weeks she did this and nothing 
more. 

“ Then the bow was placed in her right hand. Now 
rest it lightly on the strings and draw it down slowly 
and steadily. Not a sound ! No, there was no rosin 
on the bow, and it slipped over the strings in silence. 

“ Two hours every day, nothing but positions and 
dumb motions : not even finger exercises. Simply 
to learn to stand, to put the fingers in the right place, 
and to make the right motions with the bow. Very 
often her poor arms would ache, and her legs become 


THE GIRL THAT HAD PATIENCE TO PRACTISE. 


stiff with standing. Then her teacher had a temper, 
and was at times fearfully cross. Tears stood in her 
eyes; but no word of complaint ever was uttered. 
She was going to play, and this was the way to learn. 

“At home the same thing was repeated. Three 
hours’ practice every day with the dumb violin — and 
this for three full months. 

“ Now she has rosin on her bow. The exercises 
are all written out with a pen by her master. Long- 
sustained notes by the hour. The bow hardly moved, 
so slowly did she draw it up and down. If she ob- 
tained nothing else, she would have a strong, clear 
tone, and learn to make a grand, full sweep with her 
bow. Slowly and patiently she crept along, some- 
times in the morning, sometimes late at night, listen- 
ing to instructions and playing over the exercises. 

“ Seven hours every day ! Scales in every key ; 
running passages of every imaginable character — 
nearly a year of dry scales. 

“One day a famous musical director put up at the 
Hotel de France. Would he listen to her playing? 
Yes. 

“She sat in her usual place in the orchestra all the 















THE GIRL THAT HAD PATIENCE TO PRACTISE. 


evening, and then, near midnight, with her violin 
under her arm, called at the Hotel de France. The 
great artist had been treated to a banquet, and was 
still sitting in the dining-room. There were goblets 
and champagne glasses on the table, and after talk- 
ing about music for a few moments, he took a fork, 
and gently tapping on a wine-glass, asked what note 
it was. It was E. And this one ? A. And this 
one ? D. And so on. He was greatly pleased 
with the experiment, and said he would hear her play. 

‘ Only, you must mind, I don’t like false notes.’ 

I never give ’em, sir.’ 

“ He laughed, and she began to play. She was a 
bold, sturdy player, and astonished the director with 
the graceful sweep of her small arm. At the close 
he complimented her in a cordial manner, and hoped 
she would go on with her studies. ‘ Oh ! she would ; 
she meant to study all the time.’ 

“ The first real piece was a grand occasion. She 
played it through hundreds of times. Hours were 
spent over one note. A week on a single page. One 
passage she could not get right : forty-seven times 
she played it before her master would let her off. 


THE GIRL THAT HAD PATIENCE TO PRACTISE. 


No matter, she must play it right if it took all day. 
Tears dropped on the violin, the master was still 
more enraged. At last she did it right, played it 
over several times, went home, and never played it 
wrong again in her life. 

“ At last there was to be a grand concert — some- 
thing quite out of the common course ; and it was 
decided to bring out this young musician with her 
wonderful violin-playing. The Italian opera, the 
French opera, the dramatic corps, all the grand fam- 
ilies, every musician in that old city, bought a ticket. 

“ The concert began and went on. The orchestra 
played, and the artists sang, and then there was a 
little rustle and hush of expectation as they brought 
in a box for the child to stand upon so that all could 
see her. 

“ And then a slight, blue-eyed girl, in a white dress, 
white satin shoes, and a pink sash, appeared. 

“ At the piano sat her teacher ; and her father 
stood by her side to turn the leaves of her music. 

“ But a moment before she had been carried away 
with the pink sash and dainty satin shoes ; now she 
put the violin to her shoulder, and stood ready to play. 



iff 1 1 


























































THE GIRL THAT HAD PATIENCE TO PRACTISE. 


“ The tone came, strong, full and true. The notes 
were in exact time. The people were hushed to a 
painful silence. In his excitement her father turned 
two leaves — the small player inclined her head and 
in a pretty, lisping whisper said : 

“ ‘ You’ve turned two pages, papa.’ The page was 
turned back without a pause, and the music went 
on. It was a brilliant rendering of a most difficult 
composition. 

“It seemed as if the great musicians, the painters 
and the people en masse never would stop clapping and 
cheering. The leader of the orchestra offered, in the 
name of all the musicians, to crown her young head 
with a wreath of roses. The attempt was amusing — 
the wreath slipped over her shoulders, and fell to the 
floor, and there she stood in the midst of it ! 

“Then they brought a wonderful Paris doll, and set 
her quite wild with joy by presenting it to her. 

“With the doll under one arm and the violin under 
the other, she bowed her thanks from the middle of 
the wreath. 

“Then they cheered again and laughed and 
stormed her with flowers.” 


THE GIRL THAT HAD PATIENCE TO PRACTISE. 


Mrs. Gordon paused. Madge and her associates 
were on their feet. 

“I am glad you told us — we cannot guess — only, 
mamma, a great genius would not have had to do all 
this,” said Madge. 

“ Only genius would have been patient — in other 
words, patience and constant drill give genius wings,” 
answered Mrs. Gordon. 

“Tell us, please, and we will practise like her, 
without any more words,” came frankly. 

“ Camilla Urso ,” answered Mrs. Gordon. 



DAVID BUSHNELL 

AND 

HIS AMERICAN TURTLE. 


IP-A-IR ,*! 1 l. 

“ I A AVID ! ” cried a voice stern and commanding, 
-L/ from a house-door one morning, as the young 
man who owned the name was taking a short cut 
“ across lots ” in the direction of Pautapong. 

“ Sir ! ” cried the youth in response to the call, and 
pausing as nearly as he could, and at the same time 
keep his feet from sinking into the marshy soil. 
u Where are you going ? ” was the response. 

“ To Pautapong, to see Uriah Hayden, sir.” 

“ You’d better hire out at ship-building with him. 
Your college learning’s of no earthly use in these 
days,” said the father of David Bushnell, returning 
from the door, and sinking slowly down into his high 
backed chair. 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


Then spoke up a sweet-voiced woman from the 
kitchen fire-side, where she had that moment been 
hanging an iron pot on the crane : 

“ Have a little patience, father (Mrs. Bushnell always 
called her husband father), David is only looking 
about to see what to do. It’s hardly four weeks since 
he was graduated.” 

“ True enough ; but where can you find an idle man 
in all Saybrook town ? and you know as well as I do 
that it makes men despise college-learning to see folks 
idle. I’d rather, for my part, David did go to work 
on the ship Uriah Hayden is building. I wish I knew 
what he’s gone over there for to-day.” 

A funny smile crept into the curves of Mrs. Bush- 
nell’s lips, but her husband did not notice it. 

Mr. Bushnell moved uneasily in his chair, as he sat 
leaning forward, both hands clasped about a hickory 
stick, and his chin resting on the knob at its top. 
Presently he said : 

“ Anna, I fear David is getting into bad habits. He 
used to talk a good deal. ' Now he sits with his eyes 
on the floor, and his forehead in wrinkles, and I’m 
sure I’ve heard him moving about more than one night 
lately, after all honest folks were in bed.” 

“ Father, you must remember that you’ve been very 
sick, and fever gives one queer notions sometimes. 


David Bushnell a?id His American Turtle. 


I shouldn’t wonder one bit il you dreamed you heard 
something, when ’twas only the rats behind the wain- 
scot.” 

“ Rats don’t step like a grown man in his stocking- 
feet, nor make the rafters creak, either.” 

Madam Bushnell appeared to be investigating the 
contents of the pot hanging on the crane, and perhaps 
the heat of the blazing wood was sufficient to account 
for the burning of her cheeks. She cooled them a 
moment later by going down cellar after cider, a mug 
of which she offered to her husband, proposing the 
while that he should have his chair out of doors, and 
sit under the sycamore tree by the river-bank. When 
he assented, and she had seen him safely in the chair, 
she made haste to David’s bed-room. 

Since Mr. Bushnell’s illness, no one had ascended 
lr> the chamber except herself and her son. 

On two shelves hanging against the wall were 
the books that he had brought home with him from 
Yale College, just four weeks ago. 

A table was drawn near to the one window in the 
room. On it were bits of wood, with iron scraps, 
fragments of glass and copper. In fact, the same 
thing to-day would suggest boat-building to the mother 
of any lad finding them among her boy’s playthings. 
To this mother they suggested nothing beyond the 


David Bus knell and His American Turtle. 


fact that David was engaged in something which he 
wished to keep a profound secret. 

He had not told her so. It had not been necessary. 
She had divined it, and kept silence, having all a 
mother’s confidence in, and hope of, her son’s success 
in life. 

As she surveyed the place, she thought : 

“ There is nothing here, even if he (meaning her 
husband) should take it into his head to come up and 
look about.” 

Meanwhile young David had crossed the Pochaug 
River, and was half the way to Pautapong. 

All this happened more than a thousand moons 
ago, when all the land was aroused and astir and 
David Bushnell was not in the least surprised to meet, 
at the ship-yard of Uriah Hayden, Jonathan Trumbull, 
Governor of Connecticut. 

This man was everywhere, seeing to everything, in 
that year. Whatever his country needed, or Com- 
mander-in-chief Washington ordered from the camp 
at Cambridge, was forthcoming. 

A ship had been demanded of Connecticut, and so 
Governor Trumbull had come down from Lebanon to 
look with his own eyes at the huge ribs of oak, there- 
after to sail the seas as “ Oliver Cromwell.” 

The self-same oaken ribs had intense interest for 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


young David Bushnell. Uriah Hayden had promised 
to sell to him all the pieces of ship-timber that should 
be left, and while the governor and the builder 
planned, he went about gathering together fragments. 

“ Better take enough to build a boat that will carry 
a seine. ’Twon’t cost you a mite more, and might 
serve you a good turn to have a sizable craft in a 
heavy sea some day,” said Mr. Hayden. 

Now David Bushnell had been wishing that he had 
some good and sufficient reason to give Mr. Hayden 
for wanting the stuff at all, and here he had given it 
to him. 

“ That’s true,” spoke up David, “ but how am I to 
get all this over to Pochaug ? ” 

“Don’t get it over at all, until it’s ready to row 
down the Connecticut, and around the Sound. You’re 
welcome to build your boat at the yard, and, now and 
then, there will be odd minutes that the men can help 
you on with it.” 

David thanked Mr. Hayden, grew cheerful of heart 
over the prospect of owning a boat of his own, and 
went merrily back to the village of Pochaug. 

Two weeks later David’s boat was ready for sea. 
It was launched into the Connecticut from the ways on 
which the “ Oliver Cromwell” grew, was named Lady 
Fenwick, and, when water-tight, was rowed down the 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


river, past Saybrook and Tomb Hill, and so into 
the Long Island Sound. 

When its owner and navigator went by Tomb Hill, 
he removed his hat, and bowed reverently. He 
thought with respect and admiration of the occupant 
of the sandstone tomb on its height, the Lady Fen- 
wick who had slept there one hundred and thirty years. 

With blistered palms and burning fingers David 
Bushnell pushed his boat with pride up the Pochaug 
River, and tied it to a stake at the bridge just beyond 
' le sycamore tree, near his father’s door. 

“ I’ll fetch father and mother out to see it,” he 
bought, “when the moon gets up a little higher.” 

With boyish pride he looked down at the work of 
iiis hands from the river-bank, and went in to get his 
supper. 

“ David ! ” called Mr. Bushnell, having heard his 
steps in the entry-way. 

“ Here I am, father,” returned the young man, ap- 
pearing within the room, and speaking in a cheerful 
tone. 

“ Don’t you think you have wasted about time 
enough ? ” 

The voice was high-wrought and nervous in the ex- 
treme. He, poor man, had been that afternoon 
thinking the matter over for the hundredth time, in a 


David Bushnell and His America?i Turtle. 


convalescent’s weak manner of looking at other folks 
actions. 

David Bushnell, smiling still, and taking out a 
large silver watch from his waistcoat pocket, and 
looking at it, replied : 

“ I haven’t wasted one moment, father. The tide 
was against me, but I’ve rowed around from Pauta- 
pong ship-yard to the sycamore tree out here since 
two o’clock.” 

“ You row a boat ! ” cried Mr. Bushnell, with lofty 
disdain. 

“ Why, father, you have not a very good opinion of 
your son, have you ? ” questioned the son. “ Come, 
though, and see what he has been doing. Come, 
mother,” as Mrs. Bushnell entered, bearing David’s 
supper in her hands. 

She put it down. Mr. Bushnell pulled himself up- 
right with a groan or two, and suffered David to assist 
him by the support of his arm as they went out. 

“Why, you tremble as though you had the palsy,” 
said the father. 

“ It’s nothing. I’m not used to pulling so long at 
the oar,” said the son. 

When they came to the bank, the full moon shone 
athwart the little boat rocking on the stream. 

“ What’s that ? ” exclaimed both parents. 


David Bushnell a?ui His American Turtle. 


“ That is the Lady Fenwick. I’ve been building 
the boat myself. You advised me, father, to go to 
ship-building one morning — do you remember ? I 
took your advice, and began at the bottom of the 
ladder.” 

“ You built that boat with your own hands, you 
say ? ” 

“ With my own hands, sir.” 

“ In two weeks’ time ? ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ And rowed it all the way down the river, and up 
the Pochaug ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Good boy ! You may go in and have your sup> 
per,” said Mr. Bushnell, patting him on the back, just 
as he had done when he returned from college with 
his first award. 

As for Madam Bushnell, she smiled down upon 
Lady Fenwick and did her great reverence in her 
heart, while she said to the boat-builder : 

“ David dear, wait a few minutes, and I’ll give you 
something nice and warm for your supper. Your fa- 
ther, Ezra and I had ours long ago.” 

That night Mr. Bushnell did not lie awake to listen 
for the stealthy stepping in the upper room. He 
slept all the sounder, because he had at last seen one 


l)avid Bus knell and His American Turtle. 


stroke of honest work, as he called it, as the result of 
his endeavors to help David on in life. 

As for David himself, he went to sleep, saying in 
his heart : “ It is a good stepping-stone, at least ; ” 
which conclusion grew into form in sleep, and shaped 
itself into a mighty monster, that bored itself under 
mountains, and, after taking a nap, roused and shook 
itself so mightily that the mountain flew into fragments 
high in air. 

If you go, to-day, into the Connecticut River from 
Long Island Sound, you will see on its left bank the 
old town of Saybrook, on its right the slightly younger 
town of Lyme, and you will have passed by, without 
having been very much interested in it, an island ly- 
ing just within the shelter of either bank. 

In the summer of 1774 a band of fishermen put up 
a reel upon the island, on which to wind their seine. 
Over the reel they built a roof to protect it from the 
rains. With the exception of the reel, there was no 
building upon the island. A large portion of the land 
was submerged at the highest tides, and in the spring 
freshets, and was covered with a generous growth of 
salt grass, in which a small army might readily find 
concealment. • 

The little fishing band was now sadly broken and 
lessened by one of the Washingtonian demands upon 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


Brother Jonathan. For reasons that he did not 
choose to give, David Bushnell joined this band of 
fishermen in the summer of 1775. Gradually he 
made himself, by purchase, the owner of the larger 
part of the reel and seine. In a few weeks’ time he 
had induced his brother Ezra to become as much of a 
fisherman as he himself was. 

As the days went by, the brothers fairly haunted 
this island. They gave it a name for their own use, 
and, early in the day-dawn of many a morning, they 
pulled the Lady Fenwick wearily up the Pochaug, to 
snatch a few winks of sleep at home, before the sun 
should fairly rise and call them to their daily tasks, 
for David assumed to help Ezra on the farm, even as 
Ezra helped him on the island. 

The two brothers owned the reel and the seine be- 
fore the endof»the month of August in 1775. As 
soon as they became the sole owners, they procured 
lumber and enclosed the reel, and very seldom took 
down the seine from its great round perch ; they used 
it just often enough to allay any suspicion as to their 
real object in becoming owners of the fishing imple- 
ments. 

About that time a story grew into general belief 
that the tomb of Lady Fenwick was haunted. Boat- 
men, passing in the stillness of the solemn night 


David Bushuell and His American Turtle . 


hours, asserted that they heard strange noises issuing 
from the hill, just where the lady slept in her lonely 
burial-place. The sounds seemed to emerge from the 
earth, and timid men passed up the river with every 
inch of sail set to catch the breeze, lest the solemn 
thud should sound, that a hundred persons were will- 
ing to testify had been heard by each and every one of 
them, at some hour of the night, coming from the tomb. 

One evening in late September, the two brothers 
started forth as usual, nominally to “go fishing.” As 
they stepped down the bank, Mr. Bushnell followed 
them. 

“ Boys,” said he, “ it’s an uncommon fine night on 
the water. I believe I’ll take a seat in your boat, with 
your permission. I used to like fishing myself when 
I was young and spry.” 

“ And leave mother alone ! ” objected David. 

“ She’s been out with me many a night on the 
Sound. She’s brave, and won’t mind a good south- 
west wind, such as I dare say breaks in on the shore 
this minute. Go and call her.” 

And so the family started forth to go fishing. 

This was a night the two brothers had been look- 
ing forward to during weeks of earnest labor, and now 
— well, it could not be helped, and there was not a 
moment in which to hold council. 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


Mr. Bushnell had planned this surprise early in the 
day, but had not told his wife until evening. Then he 
announced his determination to “learn what all these 
midnight and all-night absences did mean.” 

As the Lady Fenwick . came out from the Pochaug 
River into the Sound, the south-west wind brought 
crested waves to shore, the wind was increasing, and, 
to the great relief of David and Ezra, Mr. Bushnell 
gave the order to turn back into the river. 

The next day David Bushnell asked his mother 
whether or not she knew the reason his father had 
proposed to go out with them the night before. 

“ Yes, David,” was the reply, “ I do.” 

“ Will you tell me ? ” 

“ He does not believe that you and Ezra go fishing 
at all.” 

“ What do you believe about it, mother ? ” 

“ I believe in you , David, and that when you have 
anything to tell to me, I shall be glad to listen.” 

“ And father does not trust me yet ; 1 am sorry,” 
said David, turning away. And then, as by a sudden 
impulse, he returned and said : 

“ If you can trust me so entirely, mother, we can 
trust you. To-day two gentlemen will be here. You 
will please be ready to go out in the boat with us 
whenever they come.” 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle . 


“ Where to ? ” 

“ To my fishing ground, mother.” 

The strangers arrived, were presented to Mrs. Bush- 
nell as Dr. Gale and his friend Mr. Franklin. 

At three of the clock the little family set off in the 
row-boat. Down at Pochaug harbor, there was Mr. 
Bushnell hallooing to them to be taken on board. 

“ I saw my family starting on an unknown voyage,” 
he remarked, as the boat approached the shore as 
nearly as it could, while he waded out to meet it. 

“ Ah, Friend Gale, is that you ? ” as with dripping 
feet he stepped in. “ And whither bound ? ” he ad- 
ded, dropping into a seat. 

“ For the far and distant land of the unknown, Mr. 
Bushnell. Permit me to introduce you to my friend 
Mr. Franklin.” 

“Franklin! Franklin!” exclaimed Mr. Bushnell, 
eyeing the stranger a little rudely. “ Doctor Benjamin 
Franklin , if you please, Benjamin Gale ! ” he corrected, 
to the utter amazement of the party. 

The oars missed the stroke, caught it again, and, 
for a minute, poor Doctor Franklin was confused by 
the sudden announcement of other folks that he ex- 
isted at all, and, in particular, in that small boat on 
the sea. 

“ Yes, sir, even so,” responded Dr. Gale, cheerfully 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


adding, “ and we’re going down to see the new fish- 
ing tackle your son is going to catch the enemy’s 
ships with.” 

“ Fishing tackle ! Enemy’s ships ! Why, David is 
the laziest man in all Saybrook town. He does 
nothing with his first summer but fish, fish all night 
long. The only stroke of honest work I’ve ever 
known him to do was to build this boat we’re in.” 

During this time the brothers were pulling with a 
will for the island. 

Arrived there, the boat was drawn up on the sand, 
the seine-house unlocked, and, when the light of day 
had been let into it, fishing-reel and seine had disap- 
peared, and, in the language of Doctor Benjamin 
Gale, this is what they found therein : 

“ The body, when standing upright, in the position in which it 
is navigated, has the nearest resemblance to the two upper shells 
of the tortoise, joined together. It is seven and a half feet long, 
and six feet high. The person who navigates it enters at the 
top. It has a brass top or cover which receives the person’s 
head, as he sits on a seat, and is fastened on the inside by 
screws. 

“ On this brass head are fixed eight glasses, viz : two before, two 
on each side, one behind, and one to look out upwards. On the 
same brass head are fixed two brass tubes to admit fresh air 
when requisite, and a ventilator at the side, to free the machine 
from the air rendered unfit for respiration. 

“ On the inside is fixed a barometer, by which he can tell the 
depth he is under water ; a compass by which he knows the 
course he steers. In the barometer, and on the needles of the 


David Bushuell and His American Turtle. 


compass, is fixed fox-fire — that is, wood that gives light in the 
dark. His ballast consists of about nine hundred- weight of 
lead, which he carries at the bottom and on the outside of the 
machine, part of which is so fixed as he can let run down to 
the bottom, and serves as an anchor by which he can ride ad lib- 
itum. 

“ He has a sounding lead fixed at the bow, by which he can take 
the depth of water under him, and a forcing-pump by which he 
can free the machine at pleasure, and can rise above water, and 
again immerge, as occasion requires. 

“ In the bow he has a pair of oars fixed like the two opposite 
arms of a windmill, with which he can row forward, and, turning 
them the opposite way, row the machine backward ; another 
pair, fixed upon the same model, with which he can row the ma- 
chine round, either to the right or left ; and a third by which he 
can row the machine either up or down; all of which are turned 
by foot, like a spinning wheel. The rudder by which he steers 
he manages by hand, within-board. 

“ All these shafts which pass through the machine are so curi- 
ously fixed as not to admit any water. 

“ The magazine for the powder is carried on the hinder part of 
the machine, without-board, and so contrived that, when he 
comes under the side of the ship, he rubs down the side until he 
comes to the keel, and a hook so fixed as that when it touches 
the keel it raises a spring which frees the magazine from the 
machine, and fastens it to the side of the ship ; at the same time 
it draws a pin, which sets the watch- work a-going, which, at a 
given time, springs the lock, and an explosion ensues.” 

Thus wrote Dr. Benjamin Gale to Silas Deane, 
member of the Congress at Philadelphia. His letter 
bears the date,- November 9, 1775, and, after describ- 
ing the wonderful machine, he adds : 

“ I well know the man. Lately he has conducted matters with 
the greatest secrecy, both for the personal safety of the naviga- 
tor, and to produce the greater astonishment to those against 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


whom it is designed ; and, you may call me a visionary, an en- 
thusiast, or what you please, I do insist upon it that I believe the 
inspiration of the Almighty has given him understanding for this 
very purpose and design.” 

When the seine-house door had been fastened open, 
and Dr. Franklin and Dr. Gale had gone within, 
followed by the two brothers, Mr. Bushnell and his 
wife stood without looking in, and wondering in their 
hearts what the sight they saw could mean ; for, of the 
intent or purpose of the curious, oaken, iron-bound, 
many-paddled, brass-headed, window-lighted thing, 
they, it must be remembered, knew nothing. It must 
mean something extraordinary, of course, or Doctor 
Franklin would never have thought it worth his while 
to come out of his way to behold it. 

“Father,” whispered Mrs. Bushnell, “it’s the fish 
David has been all summer catching.” 

“ Fish ! ” ejaculated Mr. Bushnell, “ it’s more like 
a turtle.” 

“ That’s good ! ” spoke up Dr. Gale, from within. 
“ Turtle it shall be.” 

“ It is the first sub-marine boat ever made ! A grand 
idea, wrought into substance,” slowly pronounced Dr. 
Franklin ; “ let us have it forth into the river.” 

“ And run the risk of discovery ? ” suggested Da- 
vid, pleased that his work approved itself to the man 
of science. 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


“ We meant to try it last night, but failed,” said 
Ezra BushneL. 

“ There, now, father, don’t you wish we had staid at 
home ? ” whispered Mrs. Bushnell. 

“ No ! ” growled the father. “ They would have 
killed themselves getting it down alone.” 

He stepped within and laid his hand on the ma- 
chine, saying: 

“Anna, you keep watch, and, if any boat heaves in 
sight, let us know. Does the Turtle snap, David ? ” 
he questioned, putting forth his hand and laying it 
cautiously upon the animal. 

“ Never, until the word is given,” replied the son, 
and then ten strong hands applied the strength within 
them to lift the curious piece of mechanism and carry 
it without. 

The seine-house was close to the river-bank, and, in 
a half hour’s time, the American Turtle was in its na- 
tive element. 

Madam Anna Bushnell kept strict watch over the 
shores and the river, but not a sail slid into sight, not 
an oar troubled the waters of the tide, as it tossed back 
the tumble of the down-flowing river. 

It was a hard duty for the mother to perform ; for, 
at a glance toward the bank, she saw David step into 
the machine, and the brass cover close down over his 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


head. She felt suffocating fears for him, as, at last, 
the thing began to move into the stream. She saw it 
go out, she saw it slowly sinking, going down out of 
sight, until even the brass head was submerged. 

Then she forsook her post, and hastened to the 
bank to keep watch with the rest. 

One, two, three minutes went by. The men looked 
at the surface of the waters, at each other, grew 
thoughtful, pale ; the mother gasped and dropped on 
the salt grass, fainting; the brother gave to Lady 
Fenwick a running push, bounded on board, and 
clutched the oars to row swiftly to the spot where 
David went down. 

Mr. Bushnell filled his hat with water, and sprink- 
led the pale face in the sedge. 

“ There ! there /” cried Dr. Franklin, with distended 
eyes and eager outlook. 

“ Where ? where ?” ejaculated Dr. Gale, striving to 
take into vision the whole surface of the river, at a 
glance. 

“ It’s all right ! He’s coming up plump !” shouted 
Ezra, from his boat, as he rowed with speed for the 
spot where a brass tube was rising, sun-burnished, 
from the Connecticut. 

Presently the brass head, with its very small win- 
dows, emerged, even the oaken sides were rising, — 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


and Mr. Bushnell was greeting the returning con- 
sciousness of his wife with the words : 

“ It’s all right, mother. David is safe.” 

“ Don’t let him know,” were the first words she 
spoke, “ that his own mother was so faithless as to 
doubt ! ” 

And now, paddle, paddle, toward the river-bank 
came the Turtle, David Bushnell’s head rising out of 
its shell, proud confidence shining forth from his eyes, 
as feet and hands busied themselves in navigating the 
boat that had lived for months in his brain, and now 
was living, in very substance, under his control. 

As he neared the bank a shout of acclamation 
greeted him. 

He reached the island, was fairly dragged forth 
from his seat, and carried up to the spot where his 
mother sat, trying to overcome every trace of past 
doubt and fear. 

“ Now,” said Dr. Gale, “ let us give thanks unto 
Him who hath given this youth understanding to do 
this great work.” 

With bared heads and devout hearts the thanksgiv- 
ing went upward, and thereafter a perfect shower of 
questions pelted David Bushnell concerning his device 
to blow up ships : how he came to think of it at all — 
where he got this idea and that as to it’s construction 


David Bushnelt and His American Turtle. 


— to all of which he simply said : 

“ You'll find your answer in the prayer y o?i’ ve just 
offered!” 

“ But,” said practical Mr. Bushnell, “ the Lord did 
not send you money to buy oak and iron and brass, 
did he ? ” 

“ Yes,” returned David, “ by the hand of my good 
friend, Dr. Gale. To him belongs half the victory.” 

“ Pshaw ! pshaw ! ” impatiently uttered the doctor. 
“ I tell you it is no such thing ! I only advanced My 
Lady here,” turning to Madam Bushnell, “a little 
money, on her promise to pay me at some future 
time. I’m mightily ashamed now that I took the 
promise at all. Madam Bushnell, I’ll never take a 
penny of it back again, never, as long as I live. I will 
have a little of the credit of this achievement, and no 
one shall hinder me.” 

“ How is that, mother ? ” questioned Mr. Bushnell. 
“ You borrow money and not tell me ! ” and David 
and Ezra looked at her. 

“I — I — ” stammered forth the woman, “ I only 
guessed that David was doing something that he 
wanted money for, and told Doctor Gale if he gave it 
to him I would repay it. Do you care, father ? ” 

Before he had a chance to get an answer in, David 
Bushnell stepped forward, and, taking the little figure 


David JBush7iell and His American Turtle . 


of his mother in his arms, kissed her sharply, and 
walked away, to give some imaginary attention to the 
Turtle at the bank. 

“ It is a fair land to work for ! ” spoke up Doctor 
Franklin, looking about upon river and earth and sea \ 
‘ worthy it is of our highest efforts ; of our lives, even, 
if need be. God give us strength as our need shall 
be.” 

With many a tug and pull and hearty heave-ho, the 
Turtle was hoisted up the bank and safely drawn into 
the seine-house. The door was locked, and Lady 
Fenwick’s tomb gave forth no sound that night. 

Doctor Franklin went his way to Boston. Doctor 
Gale returned to Killingworth and his waiting pa- 
tients, and the Bushnells, father, mother and sons, 
having put the two gentlemen on the Saybrook shore, 
went down the river into the Sound, along its edge, 
and up the small Pochaug to their own home by the 
sycamore tree. 

Mr. Bushnell and Ezra did the rowing that night. 
David’s white hands had, somehow, a new radiance in 
them for his father’s eyes, and did not seem exactly 
fitted for rowing just a common boat, and every-day 
oars. 

The young man sat in the stern, beside his mother, 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


one arm around her waist, and the other clasped 
closely between her little palms, while, now and then, 
her finding eyes would penetrate his consciousness 
with the glance that seemed to say, “ I always believed 
in you, David.” 




DAVID BUSHNELL 

AND 

HIS AMERICAN TURTLE. 


j? -A. iR/ t ii. 

I F you go to-day and stand upon the site of the old 
fort, built at the mouth of the Connecticut River, 
in the year 1635, by Lion Gardiner, once engineer in 
the service of the Prince of Orange, and search the 
waters up and down for the island on which David 
Bushnell built the American Turtle in 1775, you will 
not find it. 

If you seek the oldest inhabitant of Saybrook, and 
ask him to point out its locality, he will say, with boy- 
hood’s fondness for olden play-grounds in his tone : 

“ Ah, yes ! It is Poverty Island that you mean. 
It used to be there, but spring freshets and beating 
storms have washed it away.” 

The unexpected visit of Dr. Benjamin Franklin, to 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


see the machine David Bushnell was building, gave 
new force to that young gentleman’s confidence in his 
own powers of invention. 

He worked with increased energy and hope to per- 
fect boat and magazine, that he might do good service 
with them before winter should fall on the waters of 
the Massachusetts Bay, where the hostile ships were 
lying. 

At last came the day wherein the final trial-trip 
should be made. The pumps built by Mr. Doolittle, 
but not according to order, had failed once, but new 
ones had been supplied, and everything seemed pro- 
pitious. David and Ezra, with their mother in the 
boat, rowed once more to Poverty Island. “ On the 
morrow the great venture should begin,” they said. 

The time was mid-October. The forests had 
wrapped the cooling coast in warmth of coloring that 
was soft and many-hued as the shawls of Cashmere, 
while the sun-made fringe of golden-rod fell along the 
shores of river and island and sea. 

Mrs. BushnelPs heart beat proudly above the fond 
affection that could not suppress a shiver, as the Tur- 
tle was pushed into the stream. She could not help 
seeing that David made a line fast from the seine- 
house to his boat ere he went down. They watched 
many minutes to see him rise to the surface, but he 
did not. 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


“ Mother,” said Ezra, “the pump for forcing water 
out when he wants to rise don’t work, and we must 
pull him in. He feared it.” 

As he spoke the words he laid hold on the line, and 
began gently to draw on it. 

“Hurry! hurry! do!” cried Mrs. Bushnell, seiz- 
ing the same line close to the water’s edge, and draw- 
ing on it with all her strength. She was vexed that 
Ezra had not told her the danger in the beginning, 
and she “ knew very well that she would not have 
stood there and let David die of suffocation, in that 
horrid, brass-topped coffin ! ” 

“ Hold, mother ! ” cried Ezra ; “ pull gently, or the 
line may part on some barnacled rock if it gets 
caught.” 

Nevertheless, Mrs. Bushnell pulled in as fast as 
she could. 

The tide was sweeping up the river, and a shark, 
in hard chase after a school of menhaden, swam 
steadily up, with fin out of water. 

Just as the shark reached the place, he made a dive, 
and the rope parted ! 

Mrs. Bushnell screamed a word or two of the ter- 
ror that had seized her. Ezra looked up, amazed to 
find the rope coming in so readily, hand over hand. 
He cast it down, sprang to the boat, and pushed off 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


to the possible rescue, only to find that the Turtle 
was making for the river-bank instead of the island. 

He rowed to the spot. His brother, for the first 
time in his life, was overcome with disappointment 
and disinclined to talk. 

“I — I,” said David, wiping his forehead. “ I 
grew tired, and made for shore. The tide was taking 
me up fast.” 

“ Did you let go the line ? ” questioned Ezra. 

“Yes.” 

“ The pump works all right, then ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You’ve frightened mother terribly.” 

“ Have I ? I never thought. I forgot she was 
here. Let us get back, then ; ” and the two brothers, 
without speaking a word, rowed down against the 
sweep of tide, the great Turtle in tow. 

The three went home, still keeping a silence broken 
only by briefest possible question and answer. 

The golden October night fell upon the old town. 
Pochaug River, its lone line of silver gathered in 
many a stretch of interval into which the moon looked 
calmly down, lay on the land for many a mile. 

Again and again, during the evening, David Bush- 
nell went out from the house and stood silently on the 
rough bridge that crossed the river by the door. 


David Bushnell and His American 7'urtle. 


“ Let David alone, mother,” urged Ezra, as she was 
about to follow him on one occasion. “ He is think- 
ing out something, and is better alone.” 

That which the young man was thinking at the mo- 
ment was, that he wished the moon would hurry and 
go down. He longed for darkness. 

The night was growing cold. Frost was in the 
air. 

As he stood on the rough logs, a post-rider, hurry- 
ing by with letters, came up. 

“ Halloa there ! ” he called aloud, not liking the 
looks of the man on the bridge. 

“ It’s I, — David Bushnell, Joe Downs! You can 
ride by in safety,” he responded, ringing out one of 
his merriest chimes of laughter at the very idea of 
being taken for a highwayman. 

“ I’ve news,” said Joe ; “ want it ? ” 

“Yes.” 

Joe Downs opened his packet, and, by the light of 
the moon, found the letter he had referred to. 

“ Dr. Gale told me not to fail to put this into your 
hands as I came by. I should kind o’ judge, by the 
way he spoke, that the continent couldn’t get along 
very well 'thout you, if I hadn’t known a thing or two. 
Howsomever, here’s the letter, and I’ve to jog on to 
Guilford afore the moon goes down. So good-night.” 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


“Good night, Joe. Thank you for stopping,” said 
David, going into the house. 

“ Were you expecting that letter, David ? ” ques- 
tioned Mr. Bushnell, when it had been read. 

“No, sir. It is from Dr. Gale. He asks me to 
hasten matters as far as possible, but a new contriv- 
ance will have to go in before I am ready.” 

“There! That’s what troubles him,” thought both 
Mrs. Bushnell and Ezra, and they exchanged glances 
of sympathy and satisfaction — and the little house- 
hold went to sleep, quite care-free that night. 

At two of the clock, with nearly noiseless tread, 
David Bushnell left the house. 

As the door closed his mother moved uneasily in 
her sleep, and awoke with the sudden consciousness 
that something uncanny had happened. 

She looked from a window and saw, by the light of 
a low-lying moon, that David had gone out. 

Without awakening her husband she protected her- 
self with needful clothing, and, wrapped about in one 
of the curious plaid blankets of mingled blue and 
white, adorned with white fringe, that are yet to be 
found in the land, she followed into the night. 

Save for the sleepy tinkle of the water over the 
stones in the Pochaug River, and an occasional cry 
of a night-bird still lingering by the sea, the air was 
<ery still. 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


With light tread across the bridge she ran a little 
way, and then ventured a timid cry of her own iir o 
the night : 

“ David ! David ! ” 

Now David Bushnell hoped to escape without awa’t- 
ening his mother. He was lingering near, to learn 
whether his going had disturbed anyone, and he was 
quite prepared for the call. 

Turning back to meet her he thought : “ What a 
mother mine is.” And he said, “ Well, mother, what 
is it ? I was afraid I might disturb you.” 

“ O David ! ” was all that she could utter in re- 
sponse. 

“And so you are troubled about me, are you? Pm 
only going to chase the will-o’-the-wisp a little while, 
and I could not do it, you know, until moon-down.” 

“ O David ! ” and this time with emphatic pressure 
on his arm, “ David, come home, /can’t let you go 
off alone.” 

“ Come with me, then. You’re well blanketed, I 
see. I’d much rather have some one with me, only 
Ezra was tired and sleepy.” 

He said this with so much of his accustomed man- 
ner that Mrs. Bushnell put her hand within his arm 
and went on, quite content now, and willing that he 
should speak when it pleased him to do so, and it 
pleased him very soon. 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


“ Little mother,” he said, “ I am afraid you are 
losing faith in me ’’ 

“Never! David; only — I was a little afraid that 
you were losing your own head, or faith in your- 
self.” 

“ No ; but I am afraid I’ve lost my faith in some- 
thing else. I showed you the two bits of fox-fire that 
were crossed on one end of the needle in the com- 
pass, and the one bit made fast to the other ? Well, 
to-day, when I went to the bottom of the river, the 
fox-fire gave no light, and the compass was useless. 
Can you understand ho*v bad that would be under an 
enemy’s ship, not to know in which direction to navi- 
gate ? ” 

“You must have fresh fire, then.” 

“ That is just what I am out for to-night. I had to 
wait till the moon was gone.” 

“ Oh ! is that all ? How foolish I have been ! but 
you ought to tell me some things, sometimes, David.” 

“ And so I will. I tell you now that it will be well 
for you to go home and go to sleep. I may have to 
go deep into the woods to find the fire I want.” 

But his mother only walked by his side a little 
faster than before, and on they went to a place where 
a bit of woodland had grown up above fallen trees. 

They searched in places wherein both had seen the 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


•ire of decaying wood a hundred times, but not one 
gleam of phosphoresence could be found anywhere. 
At last they turned to go homeward. 

“ What will you do, David ? Go and search in 
the Killingworth woods to-morrow night ? ” she asked, 
as they drew near home. 

“It is of no use,” he said, with a sigh. “It must 
be that the frost destroys the fox-fire. Unless Dr. 
Franklin knows of a light that will not eat up the air, 
everything must be put off until spring.” 

The next day David Bushnell went to Killingworth, 
to tell the story to Dr. Gale, and Dr. Gale wrote to 
Silas Deane (Conn. Historical Col. Vol. 2), begging 
him to inquire of Dr. Franklin concerning the possi- 
bility of using the Philosopher’s Lantern, but no light 
was found, and the poor Turtle was housed in the 
seine-house on Poverty Island during the long winter, 
which proved to be one of great mildness from late 
December to mid-February. 

In February we find David Bushnell before Gov- 
ernor Jonathan Trumbull and his Council at Lebanon, 
to tell about and illustrate the marvels of his wonder- 
ful machine. ' 

During this time the whole affair had been kept a 
profound secret from all but the faithful few surround- 
ing the inventor. And now, if ever, the time was 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


drawing near wherein the labor and outlay must 
either repay laborer and lender, or give to both great 
trouble and distress. 

I cannot tell you with what trepidation the young 
man walked into the War Office at Lebanon, with a 
very small Turtle under his arm. 

You will please remember the situation of the col- 
onists at that moment. On the land they feared not 
to contend with Englishmen. Love of liberty in the 
Provincials was strong enough, when united with a 
trusty musket and a fair supply of powder, to encoun- 
ter red-coated regulars of the British army ; but on 
the ocean, and in every bay, harbor and river, they 
were powerless. The enemy’s ships had kept Boston 
in siege for nearly two years, the Americans having 
no opposing force to contend with them. 

Could this little Turtle, which David Bushnell car- 
ried under his arm, do the work he wished it to, why, 
every ship of the line could be blown into the air ! 

The inventor had faith in his invention, but he 
feared, when he looked into the faces of the grave 
Governor and his Council of War, that he could 
never impart his own belief to them. 

I cannot tell you with what trust of heart and faith 
of soul Mrs. Bushnell kept the February day in the 
house by the bridge at Pochaug. Even the strong- 


David Bushnell and His A7nerican Turtle . 


minded, sturdy-nerved Mr. Bushnell looked often up 
the road by which David and Ezra would approach 
from Lebanon, with a keen interest in his eyes, but 
he would not let any word escape him, until darkness 
had fallen and they were not come. 

“ He said he would be here at eight, at the very 
latest,” said the mother at length, and she went to the 
fire and placed before the burning coals two chickens 
to broil. 

“ I’m afraid David won’t have much appetite, un- 
less his model should be approved, and money is too 
precious to spend on experiments ,” said Mr. Bushnell, 
as she returned to his side. 

“ Do you mean to tell me you doubt l ” 

“Of course I doubt. Jonathan Trumbull is a man 
not at all likely to give his consent to anything that 
does not commend itself to common sense.” 

Mr. Bushnell was saved the pain of saying his 
thought, that he was afraid, if David’s plan was a 
good one, somebody would have thought of it long ago, 
for vigorous knuckles were at work upon the winter- 
door. 

As soon as it was opened the genial form of good 
Dr. Gale stood revealed. 

“ Are the boys back, yet ? ” he asked, stepping 
within. 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


“ No, but we expect them every minute,” said Mr. 
Bushnell. 

“ Well, friends, I had a patient within three miles 
of you to visit, and I thought I’d come on and hear 
the news.” 

Ere he was fully made welcome to hearth and home, 
in walked David, with the little Turtle under his arm. 
Without ado he went up to his mother and said : 

“Madam, I present this to you, with Governor 
Trumbull’s compliments. He has ordered your boy 
money, men, metals and powder without stint to work 
with. Wish me joy , won't you ? ” 

I do not anywhere find a record of the words in 
which the joy was wished, on that 2nd of February, a 
hundred years ago, but it is easy to imagine the very 
tones in which the good, God-loving Dr. Gale gave 
thanks for the new blessing that had that day fallen 
on his friends’ house. 

It is impossible to follow David Bushnell in his 
many journeys to the iron furnaces of Salisbury, in 
the spring and early summer of 1776, during which 
time the entire country was aroused and astir from the 
removal of the American army from Boston to New 
York ; and our friends at Saybrook were busy as bees 
from morning till night, in getting ready perfect ma- 
chines for duty. 


David Bushiiell and His American Turtle. 


David Bushnell’s strength proved insufficient to 
navigate one of his Turtles in the tidal waters of the 
Sound, and his brother Ezra learned to do it most 
perfectly. 

In the latter end of June, the British fleet, which 
had sailed out of Boston harbor so ingloriously on th6 
17th of March, for Halifax, there to await re-inforce- 
ments, appeared in the waters adjacent to New York. 

The signal of their approach was gladly hailed by 
the inventor and by the navigator of the American 
Turtle. 

A whale-boat from New London, her seamen sworn 
to inviolable secrecy, was ordered to be in the river 
at a given point, on a given night, for a service of 
which the men were utterly ignorant. 

On thfe evening previous, Ezra Bushnell, overworn 
by many attempts at navigating the machine, was ta- 
ken seriously ill. * At midnight he was delirious — at 
day-dawn Dr. Gale was sent for. 

When night fell he was in a raging fever, with no 
prospect of rapid recovery. 

David set off alone, and with a heavy heart, to meet 
the boatmen. In the seine-house on Poverty Island 
the brothers had stored provisions for a cruise of sev- 
eral davs. To this spot David Bushnell went alone, 
and with a saddened heart, for he knew that it must 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


be many days ere he could learn of his brother’s con 
dition. 

The New London boatmen were promptly at the 
appointed place of meeting. 

When they saw the curious thing they were told to 
take in tow, their curiosity knew no bounds ; and it 
was only when assured that it was dangerous to exam- 
ine it, that they desisted from their determination to 
know all about it, and consented to obey orders. 

When, at last, a departure was made, the hour was 
midnight, the tide served, and no ill-timed discovery 
was made of the deed. 

The strong-armed boatmen rowed well and long, 
and, as daylight dawned, they were directed to keep 
a look-out for Faulkner’s Island, a small bit of land in 
the Sound, nearly five miles from the Connecticut 
shore. 

The flashing light that illumines the waters at night 
for us, did not gleam on them, but, nevertheless, the 
high brown bank and the little slope of land looked 
inviting to weary men, as they cautiously rowed near 
to it, not knowing whom they might meet there. 

They landed, made a fire, cooked their food, ate of 
it, and lay down to sleep until night should come 
again. 

They set out early in the ensuing twilight, and 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


rowed westward all night, in the face of a gentle 
wind. 

“ If there were only another Faulkner’s Island to 
flee to,” said Mr. Bushnell, as morning drew near. 
“ Do you know (to one of the men) a safe place to 
hide in, on this coast ? ” 

They were then off Merwin’s Point, and between 
West Haven and Milford. 

“ There’s Poquahaug,” was the reply, with a mo- 
mentary catch of the oar, and incline of the head 
toward the south-west. 

“ What is Poquahaug ? ” 

“ A little island, pretty well in, close to shore, as it 
were, and, maybe, deserted.” 

After deliberate council had been held it was re- 
solved to examine the locality. 

A few years after New Haven and Milford churches 
were formed under the oak-tree at New Haven, this 
little island, to which they were fleeing to hide the 
Turtle from daylight, was “ granted to Charles Deal 
for a tobacco plantation, provided that he would not 
trade with the Dutch or Indians ; ” but now, Indians, 
Dutch and Charles Deal alike had left it, the latter 
with a rude, sheltering building in place of Ausanta- 
wae’s big summer wigwam that used to adorn its crest. 

To this spot, bright with grass, and green with full- 


David Bushiiell and His American Turtle. 


foliaged trees of oak on its eastern shore, the weary 
boatmen, who had had a long, hard pull of twenty 
miles to make, came, just as the longest day’s sun was 
at its rising. 

They were so glad and relieved and everything to 
find no one on it. 

The Turtle was left at anchor near the shore ; the 
whale-boat gave up of its provisions, and presently 
the little camp was in the enjoyment of a long day of 
rest and refreshment. 

Should anyone approach from the seaward or from 
the main land, it was determined that the party should 
resolve itself into a band of fishermen, fishing far 
striped bass, for which the locality was well known. 

As the day wore on, and the falling tide revealed a 
line of stones that gradually increased, as the water 
fell, to a bar a hundred feet wide, stretching from the 
island to the sands of the Connecticut shore, David 
Bushnell perceived that the locality was just the 
proper place in which to learn and teach the art of 
navigating the Turtle. He examined the region well, 
and then called the men together. 

They were staunch, good-heaited fellows, accus 
tomed to long pulls in northern seas after whales, and 
that they were patriotic he fully believed. The Tur 
tie was drawn up under the grassy bank, where the 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


loi\g sedge half hid, and bushels of rock-weeds and 
sea-drift wholly concealed it, and then, in a few care- 
fully-chosen words, David Bushnell entrusted it to 
the watch and care of the boatmen. 

“ I am going to leave it here, and you with it, until 
I return,” he said. “Guard it with your lives if need 
be. If you handle it it will be at the risk of life. If 
you keep it well , Congress will reward you.” 

The mystery of the whole affair enchanted the 
men. They made faithful promises, and, in the glo- 
rious twilight of the evening, rowed David Bushnell 
across the beautiful stretch of Sound that to-day sepa- 
rates Charles Island from the comely old town of 
Milford. 

As the whale-boat went up the harbor, a sailing 
vessel was getting ready to depart. 

Finding that it was bound to New York, David 
Bushnell took passage in it the same night. 

Two days later, with a letter from Governor Trurtf- 
bull to General Washington as his introduction, the 
young man, by command of the latter, sought out 
General Parsons, and “ requested him to furnish him 
with two or three men to learn the navigation of his 
new machine. General Parsons immediately sent for 
Ezra Lee, then a sergeant, and two others, who had 
offered their services to go on board a fire-ship ; and, 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle . 


on Bushnell's request being made known to them, 
they enlisted themselves under him for this novel 
piece of service.” 

Returning to Poquahaug (the Indian name of 
Charles Island), the American Turtle was found safe 
and sound. Here the little party spent many days in 
experimenting with it in the waters about the Island, 
and in the Housatonic River. 

During this time the enemy had got possession of 
a portion of Long Island, and of Governor’s Island in 
the harbor, thus preventing the approach to New York 
by the East River. 

When the appalling news of the battle of Long Is- 
land reached David Bushnell, he resolved, cost what 
it might of danger to himself, or hazard to the Turtle, 
to get it to New York with all speed. 

To that end he had it conveyed by water to New 
Rochelle, there landed, and carried across the coun 
try to the Hudson River, and presently we hear of it 
as being, on a certain night, late in August, ready to 
start on its perilous enterprise. 

If you will go to-day and stand where the Turtle 
floated that night (for the land has since that time 
grown outward into the sea), on your right hand, 
across the Hudson River, you will see New Jersey. 
At you left, across the East River, Long Island be- 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


gins, with the beautiful Governor’s island in the bay 
just before you, and, looking to the southward, in the 
distance, you will discern Staten Island. 

Let us go back to that day and hour. 

The precise date of the Turtle’s voyage down the 
bay is not given, but the time must have been on the 
night of either the thirtieth or thirty-first of August. 
We will choose the thirtieth, and imagine ourselves 
standing in the crowd by the side of Generals Wash- 
ington and Putnam, to see the machine start. 

Remember, now, where we stand. It is only last 
night that our army, defeated, dispirited, exhausted 
by battle, lay across the river on Brooklyn Heights 
Behind it, busy with pickaxe and shovel, the victori- 
ous troops of Mother England were making ready to 
finish the Americans on the morrow. 

There were supposed to be twenty-four thousand of 
the enemy, only nine thousand Continentals ; and, 
just ready to enter East River and cut them off from 
New York, lay the British fleet to the north of Staten 
Island. 

As happened at Boston in March, so happened it last 
-night in New York, a friendly fog held the heights of 
Brooklyn in its grasp, while at New York all was dear. 

Under cover of this fog General Washington with- 
drew across the river, a mile or more in width, nine 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle . 


thousand men , with all their “ baggage, stores, provis- 
ions, horses, and munitions of war,” and not a man 
of the enemy knew that they were gone until the fog 
lifted. 

Now, as we stand, Long Island, Governor’s Island, 
Staten Island, one and all are under the control of 
Britons. 

David Bushnell is in a whale-boat, down close to 
the Turtle, giving some last important words of direc- 
tion to brave Ezra Lee, who has stepped within it. 
David Bushnell could not help wishing, as he did so, 
that he could take his place and guide the spirit of the 
child of his own creation, in its first great encounter 
with the world. 

The word is given. The brass top of the Turtle is 
shut down. Watchful eyes and swift rowers belong- 
ing to the enemy are keeping guard on Governor’s 
Island, by which Ezra Lee must row, and it is safer to 
go under water. How crowded this little pier would 
be, did the inhabitants but know what is going on ! 

The whale-boats start out, David Bushnell in one 
of them. They mean to take the Turtle in *;ow the 
minute it is safe to do so, and save Ezra Lee the la- 
bor of rowing it until the last minute. 

It is eleven o’clock. All silently they dip the oars, 
and hear the sentinels cry from camp and shore. 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


Past the island, in safety, at last. They look for 
the Turtle. Up it comes, a distant watch-light gleam- 
ing across its brass head disclosing its presence. 
Once more it is in tow, and Lee is in the whale-boat. 

Down the bay they go, until the lights from the 
fleet grow dangerously near. 

On the wide, wind-stirred waters of New York Bay, 
Ezra Lee gets into the Turtle, and is cast off, and left 
alone, for the whale-boats return to New York. 

With the rudder in his hand, and his feet upon the 
oars, he pursues his way. The strong ebb tide flows 
fast, and, before he is aware of it, it has drifted him 
down past the men-of-war. 

However, he immediately gets the machine about, 
and, “ by hard labor at the crank for the space of five 
glasses by the ships’ bells, or two and a half hours, 
he arrives under the stern of one of the ships at about 
slack water.” 

Day is now beginning to dawn. He can see the 
people on board, and hear them talk. 

The moment has come for diving. He closes up 
quickly overhead, lets in the water, and goes down 
under the ship’s bottom. 

He now applies the screw and does all in his power 
to make it enter, but in vain ; it will not pierce the 
ship’s copper. Undaunted, he paddles along to a 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle, 


different part, hoping to find a softer place ; but, in 
doing this, in his hurry and excitement, he manages 
the mechanism so that the Turtle instantly arises to 
the surface on the east side of the ship, and is at 
once exposed to the piercing light of day. 

Again he goes under, hoping that he has not been 
seen. 

This time his courage fails. It is getting to be 
day. If the ship’s boats are sent after him his escape 
will be very difficult, well-nigh impossible, and, if he 
saves himself at all, it must be by rowing more than 
four miles. 

He gives up the enterprise with reluctance, and 
starts for New York. 

Governor’s Island must be passed by. He draws 
near to it, as near as he can venture, and then sub- 
merges the Turtle. Alas ! something has befallen the 
compass. It will not guide the rowing under the sea. 

Every few minutes he is compelled to rise to the 
surface to look out from the top of the machine to 
guide his course, and his track grows very ziz-zag 
through the waters. 

Ah ! the soldiers at Governor’s Island see the 
Turtle ! Hundreds are gathering upon the parapet to 
watch its motions, such a curious boat as it is, with 
turret of brass bobbing up and down, sinking, disap- 


David Bushnell and His American Turtle. 


pearing — coming to the surface again in a manner 
wholly unaccountable. 

Brave Lee knows his danger, and paddles away for 
dear life and love of family up in Lyons, eating 
breakfast quietly now he remembers, not knowing his 
peril. 

Once more he goes up to take a lookout, to see 
where White-hall slip lies. 

A glance at Governor’s Island, and he sees a barge 
shove off laden with his enemies. 

Down again, and up, and he sees it making for him. 

There is no escape l What can he do ! 

“If I must die,” he thinks, “they shall die with 
me ! ” and he lets go the magazine. 

Nearer and nearer — the barge is very close. “If 
they pick me up they will pick that up,” thinks Lee, 
“ and we shall all be blown to atoms together ! ” 

They are now within a hundred and fifty feet of 
the Turtle, and they see the magazine that he has de- 
tached. 

“Some horrible Yankee trick!” cries a British sol- 
dier. “Beware!” And they do beware by turning 
and rowing with all speed for the island whence they 
came. 

Poor Lee looks out with amazement to see them go. 
fie is well-nigh exhausted, and the magazine , with its 


David Bushnell and His American lurtle. 


dreadful clock-work going on within it , and its hundred 
and fifty pounds of powder , ready to go off at a given 
moment , is floating on behind him, borne by the tide. 

He strains every muscle to near New York. He 
signals the shore. 

Since day-light Putnam has been there keeping 
watch. David Bushnell has paced up and down all 
night, in keen anxiety. 

The friendly whale-boats put out to meet him. 

Meanwhile, slowly borne by the coming tide, the 
magazine floats into the East River. 

“ It will blow up in five minutes now,” says Bush- 
nell, looking at his watch, and he goes to welcome 
Ezra Lee. 

The five minutes go by. 

Suddenly, with tremendous voice, and awful uproai 
of the sea, the magazine explodes. 

Columns of water toss high in air, mingled with the 
oaken ribs that held the powder but a minute ago. 

Consternation seizes British troops on Long Island. 
The brave soldiers on the parapet at Governor’s Is- 
land quake with fear. All New York rushes to the 
river-side to find out what it can mean. Nothing, on 
all the face of the earth, ever happened like it before, 
one and all declare. 

Opinion varies concerning it, from bomb to earth 


David Bushiiell and His American Turtle. 


quake, from meteor to water-spout, and settles down 
on neither. 

Poor Ezra Lee feels that he meant well, but did not 
act wisely. David Bushnell praises the sergeant, and 
takes all the want of success to himself, in not going 
to do his own work. 

Meanwhile, with astonishment, Generals Washing- 
ton and Putnam and David Bushnell himself behold, 
as did the Provincials, after the battle of Bunker 
Breed's Hill, victory in defeat, for lo ! no British ship 
sails up East River, or appears to bombard New York. 

Silently they weigh anchor and drop down the bay, 
The little American Turtle gained a bloodless victory 
that day. 

Note. — The writer has carefully followed, in the account of the Turtle’s 
attempt upon the Eagle, the statement of Ezra Lee, made to Mr. Charles 
Griswold of Lyme, more than forty years after the occurrence, and by him 
communicated to the A liter ican Journal of Science and Arts in 1820. For 
the description of the wonderful mechanism of the machine, the account given 
at the time by Dr. Gale in his letters to Silas Deane has been chosen, as 
probably more accurate than one made from memory after forty years had 
passed. 



9 


A TRUE BIT OF HISTORY. 


MALL Miss Rachel Winchester was a snapping- 



w— 7 eyed Puritan of seven years. She knew the 
shorter catechism and the longer catechism ; and 
if there had been any middle-sized catechism, like 
the “ middle-sized bear,” you know, she would have 
had that at her tongue’s end. She mea?it to be a 
pretty good girl — only the catechisms had not had 
time to strike in. Her brother Niah , as all called him, 
did not know even a “ kittenchism,” and was not a bit 
ashamed of it. Rachel and Zephaniah lived with their 
grandfather, a doctor in Albany. 

Rachel had a friend, Scotch Margery, with wide- 
open blue eyes. One day she came to see Rachel, 
who could not play until she finished her “ stint : ” 
five rows of knitting around a sock. 

Then they went around to grandfather’s office to 


A True Bit of History. 


see him get ready to go away. Being forbidden ever 
to enter without permission, they sat down on the 
doorsteps with Zephaniah and looked in. 

It was a charming place. A dusty, hollow-eyed 
skull sat on a shelf, and in the corner was a chest 
holding — nobody knew what — which was awful, you 
know. Grandfather was making up powders, getting 
ready “blue mass,” assafcetida and “green and yel- 
low ” mixtures for his circuit around the country. Be- 
fore he put them into his old leather saddle-bags, he 
looked over another wallet that made shivers run up 
Niah’s spine. Here were nippers, pinchers, cutters, 
dashers, scissors, tooth-pullers and nose-wringers. Re- 
membering a certain poor tooth in his possession, Niah 
now arose and “melted into the distance,” as artists 
say. 

The little girls sat still until grandpa went away. 
When his big horse, Thunder, had kicked up a cloud 
of dust and hid his long legs in it, Rachel Winches- 
ter, the small Puritan, whose ancestors came over in 
the “ May Flower,” she forgot all the good in both cate- 
chisms and said : 

“ Margery Campbell, let us go in /” 

“ But your gran’ther said we mustn’t.” 

“ That’s just why I want to. What is the use of 


A True Bit of History. 


always behaving well ? Let’s peek around a little bit — 
Niah ’s out of the way.” 

Margery consented. In they went. First they 
opened queer little drawers full of cloves, spice, slip- 
pery elm and alum. Then they took hold of hands 
and took a respectful view of the skull. 

“ What is in the inside of it when it is inside of us? ” 
whispered Margery. 

“ Why, nothing ! The skin and hair cover its out- 
side and then it is hollow — that is why your head rings 
when you get your ears boxed,” said Rachel. 

“ Where do our brains be ? ” asked Margery. 

“ Oh — why — in our eyes, certainly. As soon as 
you see something you begin to think — your thinker 
is your brains, you know. Grandfather explains such 
things to our family.” 

“ We haven’t got any grandfather.” 

“ Oh, well I knew this without mine,” said Rachel 
arrogantly. They poked their fingers into everything 
sweet, sour, sticky or in any way mysterious. They 
smelt of various poisons and, for a wonder, did not taste-. 
They put their tongues, however, to a laudanum bottle 
and then sputtered wildly into the air. At last they 
found a nice clean vial full of pretty white pills. They 
examined it with delight. 



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IT WAS A CHARMING PLACE 





A True Bit of History. 


“ Now, just let’s take the tin cup of water,” said 
the enterprising Rachel, “ and swallow first one of 
these, and then a drink and then a nuther , and see 
which can swallow the most ! ” 

Margery agreed, and at it they went — a pill — a 
drink — a pill — a drink — a pill — a pill — a pill — 
until the vial was empty. Now you have often heard 
that our Puritan forefathers were very thorough — 
well, so were our little foremothers. 

Perhaps if these children had not taken so many , 
I might have had to end my story with a dreadful ac- 
count of their funerals ; as it was, they overdid the 
matter, and their folly saved them. 

Margery had not once winced ; but Rachel did not 
take time to wink, and so came out three pills and a 
choke ahead of her friend. When all were down they 
went out and sat down in a vacant lot near the house. 
It was cool and pleasant under the fence, and they be 
gan to tell Indian stories. Suddenly in the middle 
of one Margery exclaimed : 

“ Oh ! I feel as I did coming from Scotland, when 
the ship turned over ! ” 

“ What ails you ? ” said Rachel slowly. I guess it’s 
the weather — I've been feeling sort of — lonesome 
in my stummick.” 


A True Bit of History. 


They felt a little better, and so curious to know 
what “ this here ” was, that they forgot to ask Niah 
where he felt unwell. They looked eagerly into his 
hand and sniffed with their little noses. He, too, 



NIAH ADMINISTERS THE PAREGORIC. 


had been into mischief ; for in his not over-clean paw 
was all the white sugar it could hold, and into that he 
had poured at least a gill of paregoric. 


A True Bit of History. 


“ Stick in your fingers and lick ’em off,” said Ra- 
chel’s worthy brother. “ It’s good.” 

Grandfather Winchester might not have given this 
very remedy ; but true it was, that before they had 
“ licked ” their fingers many times, they were better, 
able in fact to sit up and walk a little way. 

“ I shall never sin any more,” said Rachel. 

“ Nor I,” said Margery. “ It must be dreadful 
wicked to take pills when you don’t need ’em.” 

“ Awful ! ” said Niah, with a finishing application 
of his tongue to his small palm. “ Awful — but we 
needed this paregoric.” 

“ Do you think,” asked Rachel, “ we have got to 
tell grandfather of this ? ” 

“ No,” said Niah promptly. 

“ I shall tell if it is right,” said Rachel firmly. “ I 
ain’t going to sin any more.” 

Margery mused. Then she remarked : 

“ The pills didn’t stay stealed long. We can’t give 
’em back. I don’t feel as if I needed any more pun- 
ishing to make me sorry.” 

“ That’s so,” said Rachel. “ We’ve had our own 
punishing.” They each forgot that Niah had sinned 
and not suffered ; while he was hardened enough not 
to think of himself at all. 


A True Bit of History. 


In a minute she knew exactly how Margery felt 
coming over seas, for her lonesomeness increased 
and she rapidly lost “ snap.” 

Margery, growing white and whiter, slid down flat 
on the grass, then with a groan that seemed to come 
from her little pegged shoes, became dreadfully sick, 
and Miss Winchester followed suit. 

If they had swallowed the whole contents of the 
doctor’s saddle-bags they could scarcely have suffered 
more. When it seemed as if they must have thrown 
up not only the pills, but everything else that could 
possibly be in their stomachs, they got up and stag- 
gered along by the fence: but were soon forced to 
drop down again. 

“ I’m a-dyin’ ! ” said Margery. “And I am afraid — 
I want my mother.” 

“ Ain’t it awful ? ” groaned Rachel. “ I’ve com- 
mitted sin lately and I’m scared too — I broke a china 
cup and hid it up the chimney.” 

“ Yes, we’re both of us wicked as we’re sick,” 
moaned Margery. “ I made faces at my mother be- 
hind the door, when she wouldn’t let me take her 
gold ring.” 

“ Hello down there ! What you a-doin’ ? ” cried 
Zephaniah, his shock head coming over the top rail 


A True Bit of History. 


of the fence, and he seeming to hang there by his 
chin. 

“ 0 Niah, we’re goin’ to die ! ” answered Rachel 
dismally. 

“ What for ? ” he asked, not seeing the least use in 
it. 

“ We’ve killed ourselves,” returned Rachel faintly. 
She must talk while breath remained ; so she gave 
her brother the facts of the case. His face, during 
the story, showed disgust at their present wilted con- 
dition, mingled with admiration for their daring ex- 
ploit. 

“ Phu, Rachel! I wouldn’t die — you can’t see ’em 
bile maple sap next year.” 

“ How can we help it ? ” gasped blue-eyed Margery. 

“Oh, I’ll stiffen you up !” and Niah suddenly un- 
hooked himself from the top rail and disappeared. 
They thought he had gone to tell of them, and did not 
care, for they were so weak and miserable. 

Ten minutes later he came stubbing along over the 
ploughed ground toward them with one hand carefully 
shut over the other. He dumped himself down by 
their side. 

“ Now,” said he, “ we’ll take every bit of this here, 
and it’ll cure us ! ” 


A True Bit of History. 


When the afternoon crept out under the shadows of 
the evening the little Scotch girl went home with a 
sick headache and was put to bed. Rachel returned 
“ tired out,” she said, and meekly crept to her couch 
two hours earlier than usual. Niah was a notable ex- 
ample of a scamp who escaped correction. He fell 
asleep over his supper in consequence of the drug, and 
slept all night the sweet sleep of innocence. Grandpa 
missed his pills in time, but went to his grave in 
ignorance of the “manner ” of their “taking off.” 

Rachel and Zephaniah more than once through a 
long life remembered that day. Scotch Margery grew 
up and grew old too ; but her eyes were never less 
blue than when she came from Scotland, and She 
it was who told this story to her grandchildren, with 
those same eyes twinkling with fun. 

This is all, children, when I have added a moral 
and a bit of advice, which just this once I beg you 
not to skip. 

Moral : Be sure your sin will find you out as it did 
these little Puritans. Indeed, it nearly turned them 
wrong side out. 

Advice : Whatever you do — do it thoroughly. 


THE RAGAMUFFINS AND GENERAL 
WASHINGTON. 


I N the month of October, 1789, General George 
Washington, who was then President of the United 
States, and residing in New York City, made a tour, 
attended by his secretaries, Messrs. Lear and Jack- 
son, to the States of Connecticut, Massachusetts and 
New Hampshire. 

History tells us how in every part of the country 
through which he passed, the citizens embraced the 
opportunity then offered to testify their respect and 
even veneration for this man, in whose character 
whatever was great and good, whatever dignified and 
adorned human nature, was so happily blended. 

Whenever he approached a town or village the 
roads were lined with the inhabitants who had turned 
out to bid him welcome ; and, in many instances, he 
was escorted by local companies of militia from point 
to point. 


The Ragamuffins And General Washington . 

The whole community was now wrought up to ' 
the highest pitch of excitement in regard to the 
presence of the distinguished visitor, and hardly any- 
thing else was talked of in the towns and villages 
through which he was to pass. 

Esquire Samuel Dunton came home from a trip 
to Norwich to Willington, a little township nestled 
among and almost hidden by the hills of eastern 
Connecticut, and set all the men, women and chil- 
dren into ablaze of enthusiasm with the news that the 
Presidential party were to pass over the Hartford 
and Providence “ turnpike,” and would arrive at a 
point in the south part of Willington, near Mansfield, 
at about eleven o’clock the next forenoon. 

The Willington folks immediately set about organ- 
izing a company to go down and join the Mansfield 
people in giving General Washington a suitable 
reception. 

Of course there was a plenty of wide awake girls 
and boys who wanted to go with the older people and 
get a glimpse of the great man ; but in those days 
children were taught that they were “ to be seen and 
not heard,” and on all important occasions were kept 
rather in the background. 

The October morning opened bright and beautiful, 
and the Preston family at the tannery were early 


The Ragamuffins And General Washington. 

astir, and with their neighbors, the Holts, the Wes- 
tons, the Allens, the Pearls and the Duntons, started 
in the early rosy morn, in holiday array, down the 
woody Mansfield road. 

A group of eager, active, bright-faced boys were 
gathered on the bridge to see them off. They 
watched the cavalcade, men and women all on horse- 
back, each horse carrying a man with a woman 
behind him on a “ pillion,” until it disappeared in 
the gray mist rising over Fenton river. 

There were a few moments of silence, and the 
lugubrious faces of the boys were growing longer and 
longer over their disappointment, when Timothy 
Pearl, the oldest and most daring of the group, said : 

“I’ll tell you what it is, boys, if General Washing 
ton is to pass so near us to-day, I intend to get a 
sight of him. Esquire Dunton said he’d likely be 
along down on the cross-roads about eleven o’clock. 
I’m going to run away down to the turnpike. How 
many of you will go with me ? If we go ’cross lots, 
and run down all the hills, and step pretty spry the 
rest of the way, there’s no doubt that we can get 
there in time to see him.” 

Half a dozen of the boys caught off their hats and, 
swinging them high in air, gave three rousing cheers 
for General and President Washington. Little eight- 


The Ragamuffins And General Washington. 

years-old Amos Preston jumped up and down, swing- 
ing his tasselled hat and shouting as enthusiastically 
as his older comrades. When, with a “ one , two , 
three / ” start, they were off with a leap-frog jump, 
they found him bringing up the rear. 

“ Amos, you can’t go ! ” Zebadiah Marcy shouted 
back at the little fellow; “your legs are too short! ” 

“ Try me and see,” said Amos, stoutly. “ I think 
it’s too bad if General Washington is to come so 
near and I not see him as well as the rest of you. I 
want to see him just as much as if my legs were 
longer ! ” 

“ Let him go,” said David Glazier, who was only a 
little older than Amos, but very much taller. “He’s 
a pleasant little fellow, and never complains nor 
whimpers when he is tired. We big boys can give 
him a lift if he tuckers.” And reaching out he took 
Amos by the hand, and the boys started once 
more. 

Away they went, striking out across the fields and 
woods gay with the variegated leaves, not stopping to 
disturb the squirrels laying in their store of nuts, nor 
taking time to pause in the shadowy orchards to fill 
their wide pockets with the fragrant fruit that lay 
thickly strewn on the turf. First one and then 
another of the boys took Amos by the hand for a 


The Ragamuffins And General Washington. 

run, or to help him jump over the huge fallen trees 
or the brooks that intercepted their way. 

Just before the boys came upon the turnpike, they 
paused under a group of maples to take breath. 

“ How like ragamuffins we do look with our old 
clothes on, and they all so torn and muddy ! ” said 
Zebulon Crocker. “ What will the General think of 
us if he should happen to spy us ? ” 

“ Let’s trim ourselves up,” said little Amos. “ Here’s 
lots of bright leaves ; and there’s a thorn bush with 
plenty of thorns to fasten them on with.” 

“ Sure enough, and well thought of,” said Elijah 
Elbridge. “ Amos knows a thing or two if his legs 
are so short.” 

When the boys again resumed their running march, 
decked out from head to foot with the golden and 
scarlet leaves, they presented a fantastic sight, 
indeed. 

“ O see, see ! hurrah, hurrah, hurrah ! ” shouted 
Jeduthun Rice, as the tired company of boys reached 
the crest of a hill that overlooked a wide expanse of the 
section that embraced portions of the towns of Ash- 
ford, Willington and Mansfield. And away in the 
distance, coming down the Ashford hills, the excited 
group saw a long line of vehicles, among them two 
large coaches-and-fours, preceded by a company of 


The Ragamuffins And General Washington. 

militia, their muskets glistening in the sun, occasion- 
ally a strain of martial music reaching the erect ears 
of the Willington boys. 

Soon they emerged into the highway. And when 
they came to the turnpike which intersected it and 
made what was known as the “ Crossroads,” they 
found the Presidential party had alighted, and were 
resting under the shadow of an immense oak tree 
near by. 

There was quite a crowd of people gathered about 
General Washington and his party, and at first our 
rather venturesome boys thought it would be impossi- 
ole for them to get a sight of the great man. But 
they perseveringly edged their way along, and at last, 
teaching the large coach in which the General rode, 
and upon the box of which sat the liveried and pom- 
pous negro driver, boy-like they edged in under it, 
and found themselves in the immediate vicinity of 
General Washington. 

The slight movement that the coach horses made 
as the boys ensconced themselves beneath the vehi- 
cle, caused the General to look around for the cause 
of the disturbance, and presently he was looking 
into the sweaty, dusty faces of these fantastically 
garlanded boys. 

A quiet smile lighted up the President’s counte- 
nance as he pleasantly said : 


HONORS TO GENERAL WASHINGTON. 








The Ragamuffins And General Washington* 

“ Come out, boys, and let us see what you are.” 

The boys scrambled out and with admirable pres- 
ence of mind arranged themselves in line along 
the side of the coach and removed their hats, while 
the General stood in front of them, evidently amused 
at the very queer appearance they made, at the same 
time pleased with their respectful attitude. 

“Well, well, my boys, you must have been running 
quite hard in order to see me, and have, I suppose, 
bedecked yourselves with these beautiful autumn 
leaves in my honor. . I bid you a very good morn- 
ing.” 

“ O dear me! ” cried little Amos, impulsively, “you 
are nothing but a man, after all, sir ! ” 

“ You are quite right my fine little fellow,” said the 
General, laughing, and doubtless touched by the 
entire boyish tribute ; and, stepping forward and pat- 
ting little Amos’ head, he continued: “You are 
right and, if I mistake not your character, I am no 
more of a man than you will be some day. That is 
something for you all to remember. You who are 
boys now are soon to be the men upon whom our 
country must depend.” 

The boys bowed and, dodging again under the 
great coach, made place for a party of country mag- 
nates who were approaching. 

The Willington folks were horrified when they 


The Ragamujffifis And General Washington . 

beheld the fantastic array of runaway boys ; and the 
oldest grandfather of them all, who had not known 
of the little passage between them and General 
Washington, shook his long cane at them and, in a 
trembling voice, said : 

“ We will settle with you, you young rascals, when 
you get home.” 

“ If you horsewhip us to death, sir,” said Timothy 
Pearl in reply, “ you can’t help it that we’ve seen 
General Washington. Besides, sir, our parents 
didn’t say we shouldn't come. They only thought we 
wouldn’t dare think of coming down here, we are so 
young.” 

The boys went back into the woods and across 
lots as happy as any little party of boys could be ; 
and twisting a triumphal litter of slender saplings, 
they gaily bore little Amos on their shoulders 
back to the quiet Willington valley, proud of him as 
being the only boy they knew of who had been 
patted on the head by General Washington. 

This little Amos, who was my husband’s grand- 
father, took great pride in this incident to the day of 
his death, and often related it to his grandchildren. 
Many of them, as well as some of his own children 
now living, will vouch for the truth of this story ; and 
that old oak tree is yet standing in the locality 
described. 


GOING TO MILL IN 1777. 



CENTURY ago, half a dozen such laige flour 


mills as are now found in Rochester, or many 
other cities, could have ground wheat enough to have 
furnished flour for the existing population of the thir- 
teen States. Then, the mills were small structures 
whose simple machinery was moved by the waters of 
a mountain stream, or, in dry regions, by the wind. 

And each farmer raised in his own fields enough of 
each sort of grain to supply his own wants, and some 
too for market and the use of the Continental Army. 

Of course, it is the aim of all nations at war with 
each other to cripple the resources of their enemies 
as much as possible ; and in no way can this be more 
effectually done than by capturing or destroying the 
provisions, without which the armies must starve. 

It is not considered honorable to burn or carry off 


Going to Mill in 1777. 


the crops and stores of peaceful farmers or of any not 
actually in arms, except in case of “ strong military 
necessity.” Probably the British officers, during our 
Revolutionary war, thought that this necessity con- 
stantly existed ; for it was far too often their custom 
to send out small parties to destroy the country mills, 
or burn whatever stores of grain or flour they could 
not carry off for their own use. 

Dutchess County, New York, which was then one 
of the largest wheat growing regions of the country, 
was mostly within the patriot lines, yet greatly ex- 
posed to the ravages of the “ Cow Boys.” These 
were a sort of organized banditti, who, under pre- 
tense of loyalty to the crown, robbed as many as they 
could, and even murdered those who resisted. 

The patriots of Westchester and Putnam Counties 
( the latter was then a part of Dutchess ) were the 
greatest sufferers from these villains ; but they also 
made frequent daring excursions through the central 
and upper parts of Dutchess County, too often pil- 
laged by some of the many Tories who infested “ the 
River Counties,” as those bordering on the Hudson 
were called. 

These marauding bands, far more merciless than 
the regular troops commanded by responsible officers, 
had, in 1777, succeeded in destroying nearly every 


Going to Mill in 1777. 


grist mill within forty miles of the Hudson. And 
even those persons who had been so fortunate as to 
harvest their grain early and hide it from the robber’s 
eye were often in distress for want of means to con- 
vert their wheat or other grains into flour or meal. 

One small mill in the town of Sharon, Connecticut, 
about thirty-five miles east from Poughkeepsie, was so 
securely hidden away among the rocks and trees that it 
ground merrily away during the whole war. 

To reach this little mill was neither an easy, nor, 
during the war, at all times a safe thing to attempt. 
It was the custom for many of the Dutchess County 
farmers who could trust each other to agree upon a 
place of meeting and an hour for starting on their long 
journey to the mill. The place chosen was an ob- 
scure nook a little distance back from the river. The 
date was the earliest on which it was possible for the 
farmers ( who had then no threshing machines, we 
must remember ) to get their grain threshed. The 
hour was usually towards midnight of some dark but 
not stormy night, for rain would injure the wheat 
Sometimes, two or three farmers would club together to 
fill one wagon or sleigh, taking turns in furnishing either 
the horses or oxen that were to draw it, or the man who 
was to drive it, on each of the several trips which 
must be made before spring. 


Going to Mill in 1777. 


At the hour agreed upon, the heavily laden wagons 
started on their way as silently as possible, and drove 
on as fast as the weight of their loads, the condition 
of the roads, and the quality or nature of the teams 
would permit. For the first few miles they kept as 
closely together as practicable, ready to support each 
other in case of attack ; for each driver carried a 
loaded musket for defense if surprised by any body 
of men not too strong for their number to cope with. 
After reaching a distance of twenty miles back from 
the river this vigilance relaxed, and each driver made 
the best pace he could toward the mill, where the rule 
of “ first come, first served,” was rigidly kept. 

The roads were not then as well made as now, and 
it was rarely before late on the next afternoon that 
the foremost of the heavy wagons creaked their way 
through the broad old street of Sharon village, on 
their way to the mill still five miles to the eastward : 
the last three miles being over a winding road with 
many long steep ascents and a few short, sharp de- 
scents, trying to both the wearied men and the worn 
horses. 

It was, and is, a beautiful woodland path. The 
heavy growths of pine, hemlocks and oaks, which on 
this spot had chanced to escape the autumn fires of 
the Indians, and the later axe of the settler, yet stood 


Going to Mill in 1777. 

in all their beauty, while the noisy stream leaped in 
the depth of the ravine which skirted one side of the 
road as joyfully as if conscious of the good work it 
had done. It seems even yet to be conscious of this ; 
for though the old forest has long been gone, and the 
trees are too young to remember about it, the stream 
seems to keep forever singing : 

“ I saved them from starving. I did it ! I did it ! 
All the good people who came to me from so many 
miles away. I ground it! I ground it! All the 
wheat, and the rye, and the buckwheat, and the In- 
dian corn. No one else could, so I did it. I ! I ! ” 

I don’t know that the teamsters then paid much at- 
tention to the chatter of the stream, or, when resting 
their teams on the top of the Ellsworth hill, down the 
side of which the mill-brook dashes on its way to the 
Housatonic river, cared to turn and gaze off over the 
fair valleys of western Connecticut or eastern New 
York to the soft blue peaks of the far away Catskills, 
or to look before them down the steep, tree-covered 
hillside to the slender gap in the thick growth of 
trees, which was then the only indication that there 
flowed the swift Housatonic. 

Probably our teamsters thought much more of find- 
ing the mill in good working order, and not too many 
persons ahead of them. It was customary for those 


Going to Mill in 1777. 


who lived within eight or ten miles of the mill to 
yield precedence to the “ River men,” in considera- 
tion of the long way they had to come and go. But 
besides the men “from Poughkeepsie way ” there 
sometimes met here long lines of wagons or sleighs 
from Fishkill and its neighborhood, or from Red 
Hook, now Tivoli, or even higher up the Hudson. 
So it might be days and even weeks before the busy 
little mill, grinding as fast as it could, was able to 
start our Poughkeepsie men on their homeward way ! 

On the return trip, there was no necessity for the 
silent midnight gathering ; for the mill was too far 
away from hostilities to render such a precaution es- 
sential, so the time chosen for departure was at break 
of day, that the time of arrival at their homes might 
be in the stillness and darkness of the next night. 

During the war, this mill was two or three times 
sought for by parties of armed Tories from the River 
Counties ; but so wild was the way to it, so hidden 
the mill among the rocks and trees, and so faithful 
those who could have betrayed it, that it was not dis- 
covered, though a band of its enemies once passed 
within half a mile of it, and might, perhaps, have heard 
its clattering machinery, but for the rushing of the 
wind through the pine trees and the dashing of the 
brook in the ravine. 


’M ANDY’S QUILTING -PARTY. 

ONG ago, “ so long ago ’tis like a dream,” there 



J— ✓ lived somewhere away up among the green hills 
of Vermont a little girl whose name was Amanda 
Brown. She was, at the time of which I am going to 
tell you, about eleven years old, old enough to have 
considerable sense ; she had that, but she had consid- 
erable mischief in her composition to counter-balance 
it, and was always getting herself into trouble. She 
was remarkably pretty, with a bright, beautiful com- 
plexion, warm, fun-loving brown eyes, and soft, close- 
curling hair. She had, no doubt, been told often 
that people thought her pretty, and like many other 
little girls who have been called pretty, put on airs 
accordingly. Little ’Mandy Brown was a favorite 
everywhere ; all her little pranks and capers were over- 
looked or laughed at just because they were kind 


* Mandy' s Quilting- Party. 

* 

hearted, sweet-tempered ’Mandy Brown’s capers and 
pranks. 

She had several sisters and three brothers. In those 
days little boys and girls often had very many broth- 
ers and sisters ; quite enough to have had a nice little 
party all by themselves every day in the year. Lit- 
tle ’Mandy, dear demure piece of mischief, was often the 
occasion of much mortification of pride to the older 
girls, who looked upon her as very much beneath 
them in worldly wisdom, because of her age ; and I 
am very sorry indeed to have to confess that sometimes 
our pretty, brown-eyed little ’Mandy was made to feel 
by her own sister", that she was a little girl, while they 
were big ones ; that she was to be “ kept in place/ ! 
v herever that was, and not expect to keep pace with 
them at all. She rebelled in her own little heart tre- 
mendously at all this ; nobody knew the storms of in- 
dignation that passed through her brain at being put 
off, nay, almost pushed off, because she was a little girl. 
Nobody ever dreamed of the ambition slumbering in 
her soul ; if they had, the knowledge might have saved 
them some trouble. 

Her mamma alone understood her little girl’s pecul- 
iarities ; and although she always gave the older ones 
all their due advantages, she never overlooked the 
younger ones, nor was she ever asleep to the ambi- 


’ Mandys Quilting-Party. 


tions of Amanda. When the older ones were invited 
away, mamma often took ’Mandy with her to compen- 
sate for the coveted invitation ; and upon one occasion 
took her to a quilting-party. 

In those days, making a quilt was quite a grand af- 
fair ; ladies puzzled their heads for weeks over the 
beautiful patterns they were to make out of thousands 
of little pieces of calico which they had been collect- 
ing for months ; and after all the pieces were put to- 
gether into one beautiful whole, then came the grand 
work of spreading it out, placing the cotton, and 
quilting it. 

We have grand receptions now, — balls and 
parties wherein to meet our friends; just as elegant 
and fashionable was it then to meet one’s friends at 
the “ quilting,” lend a helping hand to the pretty new 
quilt and assist at the social entertainment which fol- 
lowed. 

So little Amanda went one day with her mother to 
a quilting-party. She listened to the gossip of the 
day, watched all the “ lines ” and “ figures ” drawn by 
the old, experienced quilters, and made up her mind, 
as she sat in a quiet corner by herself, about the beau- 
ties of quilting. Being always a little girl, or being 
always considered as such, was something she was not 
going to be contented with, not she ! She'd let peo- 


’ Mandy's Quilting- Party. 


pie know she was not always going to be set up in 
one corner of the house and talked about by the old 
ladies ! But supper came, and supper pleases little 
children ; it was only second in importance to the 
quilt ; it was the “ grande finale ” to the evening’s en- 
tertainment. 

Amanda was very quiet on her way home ; so quiet 
that her mother became anxious, thinking that she 
might not have enjoyed herself, and being rather sus- 
picious of her quiet moods always. 

Amanda vouchsafed no particular remarks about 
the quilting-party, except to make just one very sim- 
ple remark : 

“ Mamma, why don’t you have a quilting as well as 
Mrs. French ? I’m sure our house is as large as hers, 
and we can go right about patching up pieces, and Jo- 
anna can put the cotton in.” 

" Well, dear, when we are all ready and the pieces 
sewed, we’ll talk about it.” 

“/like to talk about it now,” said our little girl ; 
but withal she thought a great deal more than she 
said. 

Amanda, with three sisters and one brother, went 
to a school which was a long way from home, quite 
two miles. They started in the morning, bright and 
early, with two baskets containing dinner. I think 


’ Mandy's Quilting- Party, 


no pleasure of their after life could equal their enjoy- 
ment of those beautiful summer mornings. Often 
they overtook other scholars, on their way too, with 
books and dinner. 

“What has got into ’Mandy’s head lately, I won- 
der ? ” says Joanna, the oldest. 

“O, some of her capers, I’ll warrant,” says kind- 
hearted Mercy. 

“ Better let her alone till her own time for disclos- 
ures or we may all get mixed up,” says John, break- 
ing off some huckleberry bushes for the girls. ’Man- 
dy ran along eating her berries as she picked them, 
her bonnet hanging about her neck, her flushed face 
betraying her to be in a dangerously thoughtful mood. 

“ Mrs. Bohannon says ’Mandy is the prettiest child 
in the neighborhood, but ‘ so queer ’ she can’t under- 
stand her.” 

“Just like Mrs. Bohannon ! She can’t praise any 
one without a ‘ but ’ or ‘ if ’ to take away all the good 
she pretends to say,” says John, bringing up such a 
large bundle of berry-bushes that they all concluded 
to stop a few moments and pick them into their bas- 
kets to be relieved of the bushes. 

John always took ’Mandy’s part, always covered up 
her “ scrapes ” and lightened her troubles, — always 
her champion, and she always his favorite. 


Handy's Quilting-Party . 


“ I suppose ” says he earnestly, “ that what she 
calls ‘ queer 1 is ’Mandy’s being so much smarter than 
Keziah and the rest of the Bohannons.” 

“ Yes,” says Mercy, “ Miss Morse says she is the 
smartest scholar in school.” 

“Well, you know,” says Joanna, taking a careful 
look around to see that her little busy sister is not 
within hearing, “ you know ’Mandy does do so many 
things to mortify us in company ! She thinks she is 
as old as the rest of us and can do just what we do. 
Why, when George Blakely called by for me to go to 
singing-school the other day, I came into the parlor 
and there she sat with my new silk dress on, so long 
she couldn’t take one step in it without holding it up, 
and fanning herself with my new goose-feather fan.” 

John nearly laughed all the berries off the bushes, 
and Mercy quite tipped over the dinner-basket. 

“ That isn’t half so bad as she served me,” says 
Mercy sobering at the recollection. “She thought 
mother ought to have bought her the new shawl in- 
stead of me, and Sunday morning when I was getting 
ready for church my shawl was missing, and so was 
’Mandy, and I went to church in my old one, with fear 
and trembling, because I knew she was responsible 
for it, and when I got there, she was sitting up as 


’ Mandy s Quilting- Party. 


straight as a statue and as innocent, with my shawl 
on, and reading the hymn-book.” 

“ What did mother do ? ” 

“ Why, nothing, of course, ’cause ’twas ’Mandy ; if 
I had done it, or Mary or Martha or Abby, I guess 
something would have been done.” 

Mercy tried very hard to look merciful over her 
little sister’s offences, but it is not half so easy to be 
merciful over our own trials as over other’s. 

All the berries were picked and made quite a des- 
sert for their dinner, so they trotted on again towards 
school, but sister Amanda was nowhere to be seen ; 
she had been making good speed while the others 
were wasting time talking about her. When they 
arrived at school the scholars were all in place, in or- 
der, and the school was commencing morning prayers. 
Their first thought was for their little sister, but she 
was in her seat, rosy and innocent as usual. To-day 
was the last day of school for a week ; Miss Ruth 
Morse had engaged to teach in another town, and the 
new teacher would not commence immediately. John 
did not notice particularly, being with the boys, but 
the two older girls wondered during recess at the ex- 
treme friendliness of the scholars ; and Mercy said, 
“ Something must be in the wind ; the girls are too 
good, by half, to-day.” Joanna thought some of them 


’ Mandy's Quilting-Party. 


must want their sums done for them, as she had no- 
ticed the same thing, and thought them, as Mercy ex- 
pressed it, “entirely too good.” 

Fate — or was it their little sister ? — decreed the 
loss of their baskets when they were ready for home. 
They searched long for them, but without success, till 
the teacher was ready to lock up and the shadows 
grew long behind the tall trees. As little sister 
never troubled her head about such things they were 
much surprised upon reaching home to find the missing 
baskets by the door-step. They had come home by 
themselves, all the other scholars, including ’Mandy, 
having left them to their search. 

“Did you bring home the baskets, Amanda?” 
asked John. He always called her “Amanda” when 
quite serious. 

“ Yes,” said she, trying hard to look dignified and 
to keep from saying more. With all her pranks, 
’Mandy was too brave to tell a falsehood, and as little 
could she act one. It was afterwards supposed that 
she carried home the baskets purposely to delay the 
older sisters and John behind the others. 

“Well,” says Joanna rather impatiently, “ the next 
time you wish to be so obliging, just let us know 
beforehand. Why couldn’t you have told us and 
saved us all that trouble ? You know we always 


’ Mandy' s Quilting- Party. 


bring them ourselves ; what on earth put it into youi 
head all at once to do it ? ” And Joanna walked up to 
her as if she were going to take off her head. 

“ Don’t be so cross, Joey, dear. I can’t answer all 
your questions at once.” 

“ Mother, I do believe ’Mandy’s up to some mis- 
chief. She has been in a brown study for a week.” 

Mother took a sharp, long look at her “ queer ” lit- 
tle daughter, and then said gently, “ Well, well, Jo- 
anna, do let the child alone; she’ll come out all 
right.” 

“Yes, I’ve no doubt she'll come out right enough ; 
it the ra*/ of us do we’ll be lucky — just remember 
what I tell you ! ” 

“ ’Mandy’s all right if you let her alone,” says her 
champion John. “ Come ’Mandy and let’s have a 
chase with old Pompey.” 

And away John and ’Mandy galloped with their old 
friend the house-dog. 

One week from that day Joanna and John were sit- 
ting on the big, flat stone in front of the house, the 
morning’s “ chores ” all done, talking over school af- 
fairs. School was to commence the next day, with 
the new teacher. Joanna and Mercy were busy 
about some sewing, but John sat idly enough, play- 
ing with ole’ P*~?ey at his feet, lazy as his master. 


7 Handy’ s Quilting- Party. 


Presently John exclaimed, “Look, Joanna, look down 
the road ! I do believe the whole school’s turned 
out, and all the neighborhood ! I wonder what’s up 
now ? ” 

But there was no time to talk; slowly along the 
road, some distance from the house, moved a varie- 
gated mass of humanity ; neither Joanna nor John 
could distinguish at first who or what it was. John 
shaded his eyes with his hand, and Joanna dropped 
“ needle, thread, and thimble too,” and raised herself 
to the top step to get a better look. Presently she 
cried out : 

“John, it is the whole school ! ” 

Mercy ran to call mother who was folding away 
some clothes into drawers, with little “ curly head ” 
as busy as a bee helping her. John continued to 
gaze in utter astonishment and Joanna was dumb. 
Surprise parties had never been heard of then, and 
the country was so thinly settled that a crowd of peo- 
ple anywhere was surprise enough. 

“ Why, what under the canopy is the matter ? ” 
said mother, into whose mind flashed visions oE acci- 
dents, funerals, or some other dreadful thing. “ John, 
go down to the gate and see what has happened.” 

But even as she spoke, a crowd of girls came up 
from the road to the gate, followed by nearly as many 


’ Mandy's Quilting- Party. 


boys. John walked down to meet the foremost, and 
although he was too well-bred to betray his utter as- 
tonishment his good breeding did not find him any 
words at all to utter. Holding out his hand, he con- 
tented himself with saying, “ Good morning, Betsey. 
Good morning, Keziah ! ” 

“ Good morning, John. Why do you keep staring 
at us so ? ” 

“ Well, I was a little taken aback to see you all 
here,” stammered John, not knowing just what to say. 

“ Why,” they said, surprised, “ why, we’ve come to 
the quilting ! ” 

“ The quilting /” says Joanna, aghast. 

“Yes,” says Betsey French, their nearest neighbor. 
“ We’ve come to the quilting, of course.” 

Fortunately, she was too much occupied with a 
brier which had caught on her dress to notice the con- 
sternation depicted in the faces of her entertainers, 
and she walked along leisurely, followed by the whole 
school of about sixty scholars, large and small. 

The attention of the home quartette was now called 
in another direction. ’Mandy came along, smiling 
and radiant. 

“It’s my quilting-party, mamma,” she chirruped 
“ I ’most forgot it. Haven’t we something to qi£ 


7 Mandy’s Quilting- Party. 


Let’s put in some aprons, mamma, if we haven’t got 
anything else, and quilt them.” 

“ Quilting-party ! Aprons ! Child, what do you 
mean ? Quilting-party ! ” 

Poor mamma got no further, for the same moment 
she took it all in at a glance, and like a dear, good 
mother made up her mind to meet the emergency : 
and, without one useless word to the author of this 
“ scrape,” she went about her preparations. 

But behold the little mistress of this affair ! 

“ Good afternoon, girls. You are all well, I hope ; 
and ready for the quilting, I see. Keziah, how do you 
do ? Take off your things here, if you please. Lo- 
rena, I am ?o glad, glad you have come. Let me help 
you with your bonnets. ” 

Once in the big parlor, overflowing at doors and 
windows, great was the chatter, great was the fun 
among the guests, and great was the delight of at 
least one member of the family. 

Away in the kitchen pantry, with closed doors, were 
mother, John and Joanna, putting their heads together 
to carry all this through. 

“John, for pity’s sake do go out and try to help 
‘ Mandy keep their attention till mother and I think 
what’s to be done. Do keep them entertained some- 


Mandy’s Quilting-party 









’ Mandy's Quilting- Party. 


way — set them all by the ears — I don’t much care 
what.” 

John gone, Joanna burst into tears. 

“ Now, mother, I believe that girl will kill me ! 
We shall never hear the last of this to our dying day.” 
For Joanna’s and Mercy’s mates had been scrupu- 
lously invited by little ’Mandy. 

“ Well, well we’ll do something, only we can’t stand 
here and cry about it. Call Mercy, and we’ll have a 
quilting yet.” 

“ But, mother ! oh, dear ! what shall we do ? 
Where are needles and thread for forty girls, even if 
we find something to quilt ? I’ll never, never forgive 
this caper of hers ! ” 

In about an hour, when the busy company was be- 
ginning to wonder where the quilt was, mother, with 
pleasant face, somewhat flushed, came in and smil- 
ingly invited the older girls “ to the quilt ” in the 
spare room up-stairs. 

“ My dears, we want you little ones to go out and 
enjoy yourselves in play while we ‘old folks ’ go to 
work,” she added. 

A quilting indeed, but without the pretty patch- 
work, had been improvised by putting together two 
sheets ; their stock of raw cotton had been exhausted 
long ago, but mother was still equal to the situation. 


’ Mandy’s Quilting-Party . 


They had nice white wool ready for the winter’s spin- 
ning packed away in barrels. They had spread this 
as well as time and wool would permit, and with John’s 
help the sheets had been tacked to the quilting- 
frames — always kept by housekeepers — and here was 
the result — a pure white quilt for little ’Mandy’s own 
bed. Thread, coarse, fine, middle-sized, and all 
sizes, was wound off into little balls and given round 
to the zealous young quilters ; and needles, coarse, 
fine, middle-sized, and all sizes, were also given round. 

They were not so fortunate with the thimbles ; but 
the merry little quilters wound papers or “rags,” 
round the merry little fingers, and all went gaily as 
“ the marriage bell.” 

And so the quilting commenced ! No one worked 
so industriously as Amanda. How her needle 
flew! It was only equalled by her tongue. Notone 
whit did she falter in her duty. She regarded the 
family flutter outside as if it in no way concerned her. 

Dear, loving mother ! How she “ put her hand to 
the plough ! ” A basket of big red apples pacified 
the younger ones for a commencement of the after- 
noon’s fun. A neighbor had been sent for, and be- 
tween them how the doughnuts multiplied ! how the 
pies covered the tables! and how the cookies and 


* Mandy's Quilting- Party. 


dumplings and little round white biscuits popped into 
view every few minutes ! 

At six the quilt was done ; and a warm, soft beauty 
it was. They had it bound with strips of red flannel 
for want of a better binding ; bul they all declared it 
set off the white beautifully, and all were delighted, 
even Joanna. They had quilted it in roses, dia- 
monds, leaves, and all the other fantastic shapes con- 
sidered necessary for fashionable quilting in those 
days. 

’Mandyhad not once been down-stairs to inquire 
about “ refreshments,’ ’ but, calm as ever, she led the 
way when mother asked them all down into the big, 
hospitable-looking kitchen, which was nice and clean 
enough for anybody’s sitting-room, where was spread 
a most bountiful repast. 

The sun was setting in fair rosy clouds when 
the quilters bade ’Mandy and her sisters good even- 
ing and started for home. John had taken good care 
of the boys among the nests, squirrel houses, brooks, 
hiding-places about the barn, and all over the farm, 
and they all set off in great glee. Amanda, to be 
sure, felt a little disappointed that mother did not al- 
low them to stay later in the evening as they did at 
the older “ quilting bees ” ; but, this being the only 
drawback, on the whole she congratulated herself on 


' Mandy's Quilting-Pa . >. 


the success of her party. Indeed, none of the guests 
knew for a long time that the party had been an im- 
promptu affair. 

When mother and John and Joanna settled them- 
selves with tired fingers, hands and backs, to talk over 
the affair after the others were in bed, in spite of all 
the worry and vexation, they agreed that it had been a 
happy afternoon for all, and they were delighted with 
their unexpected quilt, which they decided should not 
be used but kept for ’Mandy when she should be a 
grown woman. 

And so it was ; and to this day three old ladies get 
together sometimes, and, talking over old times, grow 
young again over little “ 'Mandy’s quilting-party.” 


THE WONDERFUL C< )OKIE. 

A True Story. 

O NCE upon a time, ever so many years ago, 
there was a little girl whose name was Gretel. 
This little girl — she was about eleven years old — 
lived not very far from a fine river called the Elbe, 
and that river runs through part of Germany. So this 
little girl was a German. Her father was a soldier 
who had gone to the wars. Her mother, whose 
name was Ilse, lived in a small village not far from 
the river. 

Little Gretel herself was a goose-girl. What 
makes you open your eyes so wide, my children ? I 
do not say she was shaped like a goose and covered 
with feathers. And she was not silly like a goose. 
No, indeed 1 she was quite a sensible body. But 
every morning, at sun rise, little Gretel used to walk 
away from the hut where her mother lived, in the midst 


The Wonderful Cookie. 


of a flock of about fifty geese. And all day long 
Gretel staid in the fields with the geese. The hamlet 
where she lived was very small, only five or six cabins 
— a hamlet means a small village — and Gretel had 
the care of all the geese in the place. That is the 
way they do in some parts of Germany where they 
have many geese. Every morning the geese are 
taken out into the fields, and one or two children, or 
an old woman, take charge of them ; they see that 
the geese do not wander away, that no one steals 
them, and in the evening they bring them back to 
the village. 

This is just what Gretel did \ she was the goose- 
girl of the hamlet. Her mother had ten geese of her 
own, and the rest belonged to the neighbors. It was 
a funny sight to see Gretel going out with her goose 
family every morning. Gretel was indeed a funny- 
looking little body herself. She was short and fat, 
and had a round, plump rosy-cheeked, freckled face. 
On her head was a flat black cap, and her flaxen hair 
hung in two braids down her back. Her clothes 
were just like those of a little old woman ; a very 
short black waist high in the neck, without sleeves, 
and opening in front, while the sleeves of her smock, 
or shift, were full and long. Her skirt was short and 
very full, plaited all around her thick waist. Alto 


The Wonderful Cookie. 


gether, she was round as a barrel. Shoes and 
stockings she had none in summer. In winter she 
wore wooden shoes. She carried in her hand a long 
stick, a stout twig from a tree, and sometimes, when 
it was fresh, there were leaves on it. This was very 
useful in keeping the geese in order. But Gretel was 
kind-hearted ; she did not strike the geese hard. As 
for the goslings they were great pets. At her back 
hung a coarse basket which held her dinner — gen- 
erally a slice of very coarse bread, almost black, and 
perhaps a bit of cheese or a slice of a thick, raw 
sausage, which was a rare tidbit. 

She had a little old dog too, who helped to keep 
the geese in order. He had been trained so well 
that most of the time he was very quiet, but when 
the geese were unruly and wandered away he would 
bark and snap at them, and frighten them back to the 
right ground. He was a black dog, a terrier, and 
little Gretel called him “ Schwanzel.” 

About sunrise Gretel would come out, with her 
old basket on her back, stick in hand, and Schwanzel 
trotting before her. The geese would be on the 
look-out, qua-a-acking and hissing and fluttering their 
wings ; from one door and another they soon col- 
lected in a flock, Gretel sometimes driving, sometimes 
leading them — or often trudging along in the midst 


The Wonderful Cookie. 


of them, with a great quacking and hissing and flut- 
tering all about her. Their feeding-ground was 
an open waste common, flat and low, near the river- 
bank, a marshy place with greenish pools and coarse 
grasses, in all of which the geese delighted. It was 
a dull, open, flat country, with few trees. Gretel had 
found a dry spot, a few feet higher than the marshy 
ground all around it, and here she had put together a 
little pile of stones, some of which she had brought 
quite a distance in her arms. This heap of stones 
was little Gretel’s throne ; here she sat, like a queen, 
looking over her goose kingdom, and her goose 
people. 

The geese took care of themselves most of the 
time. There was not much to be done for them. 
But Gretel was not idle, as she sat there on her heap 
of stones. Sometimes she was busy spinning. That 
coarse basket at her back held her spinning. Some- 
times it was wool, sometimes coarse flax or hemp that 
filled her distaff ; this distaff she twirled around, 
and drew the thread through her fingers. That was 
the old-fashioned way of spinning, and you may now 
often see girls and women spinning with their distaffs 
in the fields of France and Germany, while they are 
watching the cows, or sheep, or geese. Sometimes 
Gretel would be knitting ; a very coarse yarn it was. 







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THE LITTLE GOOSE GIRL 
























The Wonderful Cookie . 


When she was tired of spinning or knitting Gretel 
would gather flowers. The good Lord makes flowers 
grow for us in the ugliest countries. In that flat, dull, 
marshy land there were some beautiful blossoms, each 
in its season. There were violets more sweet than 
those of our own country, and the pretty forget-me-not 
and blue lilies and yellow dandelions and many others. 
Sometimes Gretel would make a wreath and hang it 
round her neck ; or she would put it on her head over 
the little black cap ; sometimes she would make one 
for her old black dog. And once she made a wreath 
for a pet gander ; but he twisted his long neck and 
ate up the flowers. 

Once in a while Gretel would go visiting. When 
she sat on her pile of stones she could see many 
other flocks of geese scattered over the low wet fields. 
There were no fences ; the whole country was open. 
Thousands of geese were feeding in the low grounds, 
as far as Gretel could see. Other goose-girls, or oM 
goose- women, were watching them. They mostly 
kept each on the grounds of her own village, but once 
in a while they met and had a gossiping talk. 

One morning, as Gretel sat perched on her throne 
of stones, with Schwanzel asleep at her feet, the old 
dog suddenly started up and began to bark fiercely. 
Along the highway, about half a mile off, came a 


The Wonderful Cookie. 


party of officers and soldiers, now galloping briskly, 
then stopping awhile, looking sharply over the fields, 
pointing here and there, and at last galloping down 
to the river bank very near Gretel and Schwanzel. 
No wonder Schwanzel barked ! The geese flew here 
and there and everywhere. Happily the soldiers did 
not stay long. When they had galloped back to the 
highway again an old goose-woman came trotting up 
to Gretel and told her what she had heard in her vil- 
lage the night before : 

“ The king and all his court and his army were 
coming into the goose-country for a frolic ! ” 

And now the whole goose-country was thrown into 
commotion ! Yes, it was all true. Wonderful things 
were about to happen. The old gammers and the 
lasses had enough to chatter about. They were 
frightened, too, and half out of their senses with 
wonder and fear. As for the geese, they went on 
nibbling the green water-plants, quarreling and hissing 
as usual, and in November they all went into winter 
quarters about a dirty pool in the village. And all 
through the autumn the commotion went on increas- 
ing. Parties of soldiers came riding over the goose- 
country, dashing through the villages, scouring over 
the open fields. 

Happily for Gretel it was not war that brought 





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THE LITTLE GOOSE QUEEN ON HER THRONE, 





























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The Wonderful Cookie . 


them into the goose-pastures. No ; they came to 
make ready for a grand holiday which their king was 
going to hold on the banks of the Elbe. The king 
of that country, whose name was Augustus, lived at 
Dresden, many miles away. He took it into his head 
to give a grand entertainment to another king whose 
name was Frederick William, and who lived at Berlin. 
He began to make arrangements for his merrymaking 
about Christmas time. After he had settled his 
plans, and fixed upon GretePs goose-country for the 
place, he set to work in earnest. 

It took him six months before all his fancies about 
this pleasure-party could be carried out. Soldiers 
and workmen came by the hundred ; they smoothed 
and worked over all the goose-fields for miles 
around. You see this king wanted a very large 
play-ground for his party. The soldiers made roads 
and paths and a grand parade-ground. Officers 
came into all the villages and ordered them cleaned. 
They came to GretePs village. It was dirty enough, 
and so was GretePs home. The homes of all those lit- 
tle goose-girls were dirty and comfortless, dark and 
gloomy. But for all that Gretel was a happy little 
soul, loving father and mother and Schwanzel and 
the geese. She was good and pious, and said her 
little German prayers night and morning, and sang 


The Wonderful Cookie. 


German hymns while she was at work. She had 
learned to love God, and to keep his commandments, 
and she had learned to work. She could not read a 
word, not even her A B C’s. She helped to clean the 
village now, working out-of-doors like a little man, 
shovelling the dirt, and driving the donkey. 

As for the geese, they were all shut up in a kind of 
yard about the dirty pool ; they were to be fattened 
for the king to eat. 

All the villages for miles around had to be cleaned, 
and all the geese had to be fattened. 

In each of the different villages there was some 
especial work to be done for the king’s merrymaking. 
In one a post-office was built. In another were all 
the butcher’s shops. And in another there was to be 
a great bakery, where a hundred and sixty bakers 
could work together. Three fine bridges were built 
across the broad river Elbe — one of barrels, another 
of pontoons, and another of rafts. Wooden huts 
were put up for the army. This king was coming to 
his merrymaking with thirty thousand soldiers. Then 
a palace was built where the kings were to feast and 
sleep ; there were bright green walls to the palace, 
with gilded ornaments. The rooms within were 
magnificent. The floors were made of wicker-work 
dyed in brilliant colors, and the furniture was superb — 


The Wonderful Cookie . 


mirrors, porcelain, pictures, musical clocks, and more 
grand things than I can tell you of. 

But I must whisper you a little secret which nobody 
knows but you and me ; the little heap of stones on 
which Gretel sat was carted away and used for the 
foundation of the king’s palace, which greatly to 
Gretel’s interest, was built near her old goose-field ! 

Near the palace was a beautiful Pavilion, painted 
and gilded, green and gold, a sort of pleasure-house 
for the king and his company, where they could look 
over the whole ground. 

Around the palace were beautiful flower-gardens, 
with walks strewed with yellow sand ; men, women and 
children from the villages worked hard at these gardens, 
and among others Gretel and Mother Ilse. They drew 
the yellow sand in small carts to which they were har- 
nessed ; sometimes Gretel and her mother would be 
harnessed together, sometimes Gretel would be har- 
nessed with a donkey, and her mother with a cow ! 
Many of these cartloads of the yellow sand did they 
draw in this way to strew the king’s paths. 

Well, weeks passed by and months passed by. 
When spring came the goose-fields were changed 
into fairy land ! So it seemed, at least. And the 
grand play-ground being ready the kings came to the 
merry-making. It was in the early days of June when 


The Wonderful Cookie. 


King Augustus and King Frederick William came 
riding proudly on to the ground, with great firing of 
cannon and beating of drums, and grand military 
music. And grand was their following of princes 
and ladies and generals and ambassadors in a long 
and brilliant train. The thirty thousand soldiers 
were there, too. The green and gold palace and 
pavilion and the silken tents were all crowded with 
famous people. The sentinels on duty at the palace 
and pavilion were all dressed like Turks, and one of 
them was little Gretel’s father. Every day there was 
some grand parade of soldiers. One day there was a 
very tunous sham battle on the banks of the river 
Elbe. The fleet of gay sloops was all rigged with silken 
sails, green and gold, for this occasion. The next even- 
ing there was a display of fireworks, finer than any that 
had ever been seen before. The grand ship, and all 
the gay vessels on the Elbe, with their gilded hulls and 
silken sails, were hung with colored lamps, reflected 
beautifully in the water. The palace of the kings, 
the pavilion, and the tents of green and gold, were 
all ornamented in the same way with clusters and 
rows of these many-colored, starlike lamps. 

But. more wonderful still, a grand fairy castle 
appeared near the bank of the river, as if raised by 
the wand of an enchanter, every tower, turret, window 


The Wonderful Cookie. 


and door hung with brilliant lights. It looked like 
the palace of a giant. Two hundred carpenters had 
been busy for six months preparing the frame of this 
“ Palace of the Genii,” as it was called. And now 
suddenly it arose on the river bank. There were six 
thousand yards of painted canvas hanging from the 
walls like a pictured tapestry. There was one 
transparent picture six hundred yards long. Think 
of that ! a picture only six hundred yards long. This 
grand transparency, representing Peace, could be 
seen far away ; beneath it was a Latin inscription, 
each letter of which was taller than a man. Fire- 
works, rockets, serpents, wheels, were playing, 
sparkling and flashing about this brilliant Palace of 
the Genii ; the firing of cannon was very grand, and 
the field music broke in far and near whenever the 
the cannon ceased. 

Wonderful indeed was that royal merrymaking on 
the banks of the Elbe ; and it lasted for a month, 
through all the pleasant June days. 

Meanwhile the hundred and sixty bakers were 
hard at work day and night making good things for 
the king and his company. One of these bakers 
was an uncle of little Gretel’s. Of course a great 
many eggs and a great deal of milk were needed to 
make all the cake for the court people. Mother Ilse 


The Wonderful Cookie . 


and Gretel were employed by uncle the baker to 
bring milk and eggs every day. They were busy 
from morning till night. The milk they brought in 
great pails, hanging from a yoke about their necks ; 
the eggs they carried in large baskets on their heads. 
There were more than a hundred old men and 
women, boys and girls, busy every day bringing milk 
and eggs to the bakery. Towards the end of June it 
began to be whispered about that the head baker was 
planning a surprise for the king, something wonderful 
in the way of a cake for the royal dessert. It was to 
be a great secret ; nobody knew exactly what this 
cake was to be, only the whispers said it was to be 
something wonderful. Little Gretel and Mother Ilse 
were quite excited about it, and uncle the baker 
promised them a peep at the cake before it was sent 
off to the king. 

The last day of the merrymaking, the 26th of June, 
was to be a grand feast for the kings and princes and 
ladies and all the great people, and for the whole 
army ! When the important day came eighty great 
oxen were roasted ; as for the calves and sheep and 
lambs and deer and wild boars, and the poultry, they 
were too many to count. Six fat geese of GretePs 
flock were eaten that day. As for the pastry and 
confectionery it was all perfect in its way. The 


The Wonderful Cookie. 


hundred cooks, and the hundred and fifty bakers had 
been busy for a whole week preparing good things 
for this grand feast. 

Early in the morning of the 26th of June, when 
Gretel brought her basket of eggs, Uncle Hans took 
her into the bakery and showed her that wonderful 
cookie / It was in the oven then, and she had only a 
peep at it ; but later in the day she saw it again, and 
then almost lost her wits at the sight of the wonder. 

Well, the feast began. The thirty thousand sol- 
diers sat down to their dinner first,,. in two long rows. 
King Augustus and King Frederick William came to 
see them enjoy their good things ; the princes and 
the ladies and all the grand folks came too. The 
soldiers threw up their caps and cried “ Long live 
the kings ! ” Those thirty thousand voices made a 
terrific “ HURRAH ! ” I assure you. 

After this the kings and all the great people went to 
dine in the palace of green and gold. 

And now a strange sight was seen. A large tent, 
covering a sort of triumphal car, drawn by eight 
horses, appeared on the ground, and came slowly up 
to the front of the palace of green and gold, where it 
took up its position. This tent was surrounded by a 
band of military cadets — a guard of honor. King 
Augustus was taken by surprise at this visit, for 


The Wonderful Cookie. 


which he was not prepared. All the royal people 
hastened to see the sight. Suddenly, at a signal 
from the commander of the guard of honor, the tent 
disappeared, and what do you suppose came to light 
from beneath its folds ? 

The Cookie ! ! ! 

It was enormous ! Much the largest cake ever 
baked in the world ! The largest wedding-cake you 
ever saw or heard of was but a crumb to it ! This 
cake was about thirteen yards long ; it was nearly six 
yards broad, and nearly a yard in thickness. Think 
what an oven it must have taken to bake it ! Just 
measure thirteen yards on the garden walk and you 
can judge of the size of this giant cookie. 

The kings and courtiers laughed a great deal at 
this surprise ; the head baker was called up and he 
said they had to mix the cake by machinery, and to 
build an oven expressly for it ; he said there were 
twelve barrels of flour in it, and four hogsheads of 
yeast, and four hogsheads of milk, and four hogsheads 
of butter, and only five thousand eggs ! The cake 
looked nice and brown, and it was richly ornamented 
with wreaths of cracknels and gingerbreads hung in 
festoons around it. 

There stood the Wonderful Cookie on its triumphal 





IBwfiW 


CHANGED INTO FAIRY- LAND ! 


























The Wonderful Cookie. 


car, drawn by the eight horses, and surrounded by 
the guard of honor. 

But the kings and courtiers wanted to taste this 
strange dish of dessert. How was it to be cut ? No 
lady’s hand, such as usually cuts the cake on festive 
occasions, could manage this brown monster. A 
carpenter was ordered to cut into it. He had a huge 
knife, the handle resting on his shoulder ; an officer in 
uniform stood by and ordered him to cut here and 
cut there, and many silver dishes were piled up with 
the choicest bits for the kings and the great people. 
Then came the turn of the officers. Still the cake 
was not half eaten. The thirty thousand soldiers 
were then called to attack it, and they soon made an 
end of the Cookie, that most wonderful cake that ever 
was baked ! 

Little Gretel had climbed up into a tree, not very 
far from the palace of green and gold, to see all these 
wonders. And she had a bit of the Wonderful 
Cookie, too ; her father was one of the thirty thousand 
soldiers who attacked the cake so valiantly, and he 
saved a slice for his little daughter. Schwanzel had 
a crumb, too, which Gretel gave him. 

A few days later kings and courtiers, soldiers and 
workmen and bakers all disappeared. Palaces, 
pavilions, silken tents, the fleet with silken sails, all 


The Wonderful Cookie.. 


the green and all the gold had vanished. A month 
later little Gretel came wandering among the faded 
flower-beds, over the walks of yellow sand ; she was 
twirling her distaff, and guarding another flock of 
geese, with old Schwanzel trotting at her side. 


THE MAID OF NORWAY. 


E IGHTY years ago two stone-masons were 
repairing the cathedral of St. Magnus, in 
Kirkwall, the chief town of the Orkney Islands. Ob- 
serving a seam in one of the stone piers of the choir, 
they opened it, and found an oaken coffin blackened 
by time and standing upright. 

Upon the lid the single word “ Margaret ” could 
with difficulty be deciphered. 

Within this ancient casket, wrapped in a rich pall, 
were the bones of a child. The relics were restored 
to their original place, and they are believed to be 
the remains of the “ Maid of Norway.” 

Who was this Margaret ? 

She was the only child of King Eric, of Norway ; 
grand-daughter of Alexander III., King of Scotland, 
and betrothed to the first Prince of Wales. Her 


The Maid Of Nnrwav . 


mother, niece of that tall English warrior, Edward I., 
died at her birth, leaving little Margaret heiress of two 
thrones, Scotland and Norway. The English crown 
she was expected also to wear. 

Little Maid Margaret lived in the most forbidding 
of her two kingdoms, rugged Norway. Ragnhild, 
her foster-mother, was her country-woman, and care- 
fully she guarded the beautiful, but delicate child — 
her motherless Queen. In her strong arms the little 
one was often carried along the shore. Early she 
learned to play with the bright lichens that car- 
pet the rocks, and to gather the reindeer moss which 
spreads its silver mantle over those frosty meadows 
where no greener grass will grow. From infancy the 
Princess was familiar as any peasant maiden with the 
out-door life of her native country. She heard the 
whistling swans above her head come rushing like a 
storm from her mother’s land, and clapped her tiny 
hands in glee as their wild music floated down from 
mid-heaven. She laughed at the spectacled geese 
waddling with clumsy dignity along the beach, 
and, with merry sarcasm, she called them “ papa’s 
courtiers.’’ 

How tedious the days of State appeared to the little 
maid, when she must drop her toys and remain by her 


The Maid Of Norway . 


father for an hour. She loved to sit on the cushion 
of eider-down and wear a splendid dress ; but she 
disliked to bow and bow to the fine ladies and gen- 
tlemen who filled the hall. 

She was far happier at the “ Bird Islands ” near the 
shore, where the eider-ducks build nests in the rocks. 
They were called St. Cuthbert’s birds, and it was 
thought a sin to kill them because the saint had given 
them “ his blessing of peace.” When the sea was 
smooth Margaret was often rowed to one of these 
islands. It was uninhabited, but, as the rocking 
waves sometimes made the fragile Princess sick, a 
house was built for her, so that when the wind sprang 
up she could stay there till the water grew calm. 
The birds all knew her, and when she fed them flew 
about as fearlessly as chickens in a barn-yard. At 
this wild island home her nurse, with one or two 
attendants, was always near to sing her songs or tell 
her stories. With the sound of the waves and the 
fluttering of wild fowl for accompaniment, she 
repeated strange sagas or chanted verses of old Norse 
scalds. 

“ Look at those blessed mother-birds, my little 
lady,” said Ragnhild one day. “ I have seen them 
tear the down from their own breasts to line their 
nests. When men steal away the soft lining the dear 


The Maid Of Norway. 


birds strip their breasts again. What will not a 
mother do for her child ? ” 

“ Margaret has no mother,’ 5 said the little Princess, 
gravely 

“ My little Queen, I would pluck out my heart for 
my foster-child,” said the faithful creature. 

“ Then I will call you my eider-duck mamma,” said 
the child caressingly. 

The little Princess looked upon Nature even as her 
nurse bade her. Her blue eyes dilated with wonder 
as she listened to stories of the Kraaken — the great 
sea-serpent. She watched the line of breakers towards 
the setting sun, and believed his huge tail was lashing 
the ocean into foam. Storms fascinated the child. 
She loved to peer into their gloom. She trembled to 
see amid the lightning flashes the ghostly forms of the 
awful witch-wives tying the winds into knots. When 
those knots were loosened she was certain in her 
child-heart that hurricanes would crash through the 
forests and fling ships upon the rocks. 

Nurse Ragnhildknew, too, all the stories of the Giant 
Horseman who was turned to stone and set to watch 
the Norwegian coast. She could tell the history of the 
Seven Sisters standing with their heads in the clouds 
and their feet in the sea. The Princess Margaret 
heard these wild tales as English children listen to 


The Maid Of Nonvay. 


the fables ot Jack the Giant Killer, and the havoc he 
made among the giants in Wales and Cornwall. 

Her future crown cast no shadow over the child. 
She rarely thought about the lands over which she 
must sometime reign. But in September, 1290, a 
foreign vessel anchored at Trodhjem. She had come 
from Scotland bringing a band of noblemen to the 
court of King Eric, claiming her as their Queen. 
Since the stormy night when Alexander III. was 
thrown from his horse and found dead at the foot of 
King’s Crag, his little Norwegian grand-daughter had 
been their rightful sovereign ; and now they had 
come to swear allegiance and conduct her to the 
throne. 

“ I don't want to be a Queen,” said the little one, 
weeping bitterly at the thought of leaving her father 
and her friends. 

One of the noblemen who had come to carry her 
away was Sir Michael Scott. Strange stories were 
told of him. It was said that he had learned in 
Oriental lands magical secrets, could compel the genii 
to obey him, and by their aid cleave mountains and 
bridge roaring torrents in a night. This fearful man 
was tall. He wore the robe of an Eastern astrol- 
oger. His beard, white as foam, reached to his 
waist. His piercing eye read men’s hearts ; and when 


The Alaid Of Norway. 


he fixed it upon little Margaret she was constrained 
to listen to his words. 

He spoke gently : 

“ Why, little maiden, do you shrink from your sub- 
jects ? Why dread our goodly land ? ” 

“ I am afraid,” said the trembling child. “ The 
thistles you brought me are like needles in my 
fingers.” 

“ Those are spears and for our enemies ! ” replied 
the sage. “ They did good service to your mother’s 
nation once ! The Danes were stealing upon our 
camp when one of the invaders stept with naked 
foot upon this little watchman of ours. His outcry 
roused and saved our army. But see ! the thistle’s 
heart is soft as eider-down — soft as the fairy curtain 
the Persian worm weaves round himself before he 
sleeps, to wake with angel wings. And in our land 
the heather covers the hills, and the glow of rosy 
dawn remains all day upon them. A warm welcome 
waits my Queen in the land where her mother was 
once a bonnie lassie, and the whole nation waits now 
for the princess whose rule will be love.” 

The child could not be comforted ; but alas ! it 
was decided, even by her father, for State reasons, 
that she belonged to Scotland. With Ragnhild and 
a few faithful followers, the little Queen was taken to 


The Maid Of Norway. 


the vessel. It had been fitted up as luxuriously as 
was possible at that day. Her father and some of 
his nobles accompanied her down the Caine Fiord. 
Father and daughter sailed together through the 
quiet water, which is shut in by the Archipelago 
called the “ Garden of Rocks.” They looked back 
upon the hills of deep red stone, the groves of fir- 
trees surrounding the capital, and the walls and 
towers of the child’s native home grew dim before their 
eyes. Margaret buried her head in the lap of her 
nurse, and every splash of the oar was echoed in 
her heart. Already she felt exiled and forlorn. 

Among the gifts brought by the embassadors to 
the Queen was a rich mantle embroidered with a 
wreath of thistles, in the centre of which was 
wrought a golden crown. A couch of down was 
made upon the deck beneath a canopy of banners, 
and this regal mantle was spread over the little lady 
as she lay upon it. She seemed to be a fairy queen 
holding a mimic court, all were so reverent and gen- 
tle. 

The ship sailed quietly until it passed the rocks of 
“ Skerry Circle,” that form a breakwater against the 
angry ocean. The days were fair. A golden glow 
lay all night upon the water. The strangers tried 
to interest the homesick child. They told her won- 


The Maid Of Norway. 


derful stories. They pictured to her the beauty of 
the palace where she was to live. Ragnhild never 
left her side. 

A storm arose and the little Princess grew faint 
and ill. The sea rolled roughly, and Margaret felt a 
heart-sick longing for the nest in the rocks on her 
dear “ Bird Island.” Michael Scott might command 
the spirits of the earth and the air, but those of the 
sea were beyond his control. The fragile child 
seemed utterly prostrated. A faint streak of blood 
tinged her lips. 

The grim captain was alarmed for the life of his 
charge. He had seen the battle-field when heaps 
of dead hid the grass, and the streams were red with 
blood ; but it did not seem to him so sad as the 
sight of this innocent life ebbing away in the midst 
of the stormy ocean. Strong seamen wept aloud. 
With breaking hearts the attendants stood by' the 
helpless. 

“ Steer to the nearest port ! ” cried Michael Scott. 
“The Queen is sinking! The Hope of Scotland 
must not perish ! ” 

The coast of the Orkneys appeared through the 
gloomy atmosphere. With all her speed the clumsy 
vessel made for that northern shore, and anchored 



THE MAID OF NORWAY® 



































• 












































































The Maid Of Norway. 


among the wild cliffs that jutted far into the sea. 
Carefully the sailors bore the child to shore. 

“Cheer up, my birdie,” said her distracted nurse, 
“you are in your mother’s land! See, it is like 
your own Norway — our very same eider-fowl are 
waiting for us in the rocks. Stay, stay, my darling, 
with your eider-duck mamma ! ” 

The child smiled faintly and put her arms around 
her nurse. She did not see the dripping rocks, nor 
hear the breakers that clamored and reached out 
their arms to take back their prey. With one look 
of deep love the little life went out, and the baby 
Queen passed to that country where there is no more 
sea. 

With a wail of despair her attendants threw them- 
selves upon the sand. The weather-beaten sailors 
uncovered their heads as Michael, the far-seeing, 
rose to his full height against the leaden sky. His 
hands were lifted towards heaven, his beard gleamed 
like snow, and his long robe swayed in the wind. 
The waves seemed to hush their sobbing as, with a 
harsh but impressive voice, he uttered this requiem 
over the dead : 

“ Scotland ! your Queen lies dead upon your 
threshold. On the coast of Odin’s land a rainbow 
gleamed foi a moment. Now thick clouds cover 


The Maid of Norway. 

the sky, and the storm will burst upon the islands of 
the sea. 

“ Margaret of Norway is dead ! The All-Destroyer 
has struck the maiden’s hand, and the white flag of 
Peace lies in the dust. War unfurls his red banner. 
The raven and the wolf gather to the feast carved by 
the blue swords. The life-blood of kings and nobles 
reddens the plains. 

“ Margaret of Norway is dead ! Wait no more, 
young Prince of the South, to kiss your bride while 
Scotch and English shields hang upon the wall. The 
flower has faded before you pressed it to your breast. 
Now the battle-axe will kiss the helmet, and spears 
will speed to pierce hearts through coats of mail. 

“ Margaret of Norway is dead ! I see the Stone 
of Destiny — it is planted on an English rock. Th? 
Lion of the North holds the sceptre, and the thistle 
binds his brow. But ages of war — oceans of bloo i 
— surge between, for our pearl of Peace is lost in the 
sea — 

“ Margaret of Norway is dead ! ” 

The Scottish statesmen cared not for the child, but 
for the Queen ; and now that their mission had 
failed, the lifeless little body on the sand was no 
more to them than a sea-weed cast upon the shore. 

Sir Michael wrapped the frail form in the rich 


The Maid Of Norway. 


mantle and left it to the care of the Norwegians. The 
Scottish chiefs entered the ship and hurried to the 
capital, where with wreaths of flowers and waving 
flags, with music and festivals and pealing bells, the 
nation was preparing to welcome its Queen. 

Princess Margaret had no mother to keep her 
grave and memory green ; and the great peoples were 
probably so occupied with fighting, even as Sir 
Michael had foretold, that the little maid and her 
burial-place were soon forgotten. 

The savage leaders in Scotland had promised to 
live in peace with each other, and had agreed that 
“a little child should lead them.” Now that she 
was dead the competitors for her crown fought as do 
wild animals over their prey. 

Fierce English Edward had hoped to win Scotland 
quietly with a marriage ring ; but Scotland he had 
resolved to have, and his wars were cruel. He took 
away the crown, the sceptre, the precious Coronation 
Stone ; he hung the noble patriot Wallace, placed his 
head on London bridge, sent the quarters of his body 
on spikes to four cities ; and, in token of his everlast- 
ing hate, ordered the inscription carved upon his 
own tomb : “ Edward /., the Hammer of the Scots .' ’ 

Then brave Robert Bruce arose to redeem his 
land. Defeated, discouraged, concealed in an Irish 


The Maid of Norway. 


hut, he was lifted from despair by a spider’s thread ; 
and every Scotchman steps more proudly, every 
Scotchman’s blood tingles in his veins, when he 
thinks of Bannockburn ! 

But still, as Sir Michael had foretold, there were 
wars and rumors of wars throughout the land. Scot- 
land groaned with despair when the sod of Flodden 
drank the life-blood of her bravest king and the 
noblest of his subjects. For three centuries the 
nations lost and won at the awful game of war. At 
last, after an English queen had sent a Scotch one to 
the scaffold, the son of the murdered monarch 
reigned over both countries. 

Perhaps the world would have been saved all 
these miseries had the little Maid of Norway lived. 

A perfumed violet was laid in a book and forgot- 
ten. After many years an antiquarian took down the 
worm-eaten volume and found the pressed and faded 
flower, which told him of its former youth and 
beauty. So, by an accident, the last resting-place of 
this unfortunate Princess was brought to light. Mar- 
garet of Norway, who might have changed the course 
of the stream of history, living, was the hope of 
three nations — dying, had no epitaph. 



A HERO IN PEACE AND IN WAR. 



NDER the broad shadows of the linden trees, 


which stood near the Inman estate, Cambridge, 
Mass., some boys were playing Putnam taking posses- 
sion of that fine mansion. This was just before the 
Inman House was torn down and the extensive 
grounds surrounding it divided into building lots. 

These yankee boys were well-informed as to the 
histories connected with the place, and knew that this 
was Gen. Putnam’s head-quarters at the beginning of 
the revolutionary war. So they personated Peter 
Inman, the wealthy tory who once owned the estate, 
dressed in his ruffled shirt and small clothes with 
broad, silver knee buckles, complaining that “ a gen- 
tleman of fortune and of figure should be driven oui 
of his own house by rebels /” 


A Hero in Peace and in War. 


And who is he that dares thus take possession, driv- 
ing out this loyal subject of “good King George ” ? 

A farmer in his working clothes ! What a contrast 
to the elegant gentleman above-named ! A round- 
faced, good-humored looking lad, much resembling 
the steel engravings which we see of Gen. Israel Put- 
nam, takes this part. 

And then they change their play-going back a little 
in the order of history, to the times of the Stamp Act 
excitement. Putnam was chosen by the people to 
wait on the governor of- the colony. This personage 
is represented by the little lad with the long wrist- 
ruffles, while the one in farmer’s clothes personated 
Putnam. And thus they talk : 

“What shall I do,” says the governor, “if the 
stamped paper be sent to me by the King’s author- 
ity?” 

“ Lock it up until we visit you again,” replies Put- 
nam. 

“ And what will you do then ? ” 

“We shall expect you to give us the key of the 
room in which it is deposited, and if you think fit, in 
order to screen yourself from blame, you may fore 
warn us upon our peril not to enter the room.” 

“ And what will you do afterward ? ” asks the colo- 
nial chief-magistrate. 


A Hero in Peace and in War. 


“Send the key safely back, again,” says the sturdy 
yankee representative. 

“ But if I should refuse admission.” 

“In such a case your house will be leveled with the 
dust in five minutes,” replied the intrepid farmer- 
soldier. 

No stamped paper was ever sent to Connecticut — Put- 
nam’s state. 

After this they talked informally. 

“ Putnam was a splendid fellow,” said Wrist-ruffles ; 
“ always generous and brave even when a boy, and 
standing up always for the right.” 

“ Yes,” replied Round-face, “ he wasn’t afraid to 
face down the rich man’s son who told such a lie.” 

“ Tell us about it, Chubby.” 

“ Why, you see he heard this mean fellow tell some- 
thing that wasn’t true about a poor girl, and he boldly 
said to him, ‘ Prove that.’ ‘It’s none of your busi- 
ness,’ said the other fellow. ‘ It is anybody’s business 
to defend a good girl. I know you have slandered 
Nelly. You think you may say what you please be- 
cause she is a poor girl, and has no father. You 
have done so twice. And now own up that you have 
lied about Nelly or I’ll thrash you,’ said Israel, and he 
walked close up to the fellow, who was a coward and 
glad to escape by owning up.” 


A Hero in Peace and in War. 


Then followed the story of the bribe offered to him 
by the British general, a very large sum of money, 
with a Lieutenant-General’s commission, if he would 
only defend the King’s cause against the New Eng- 
land revolutionists. 

“ But he was too noble to be bought said Round- 
face ; “yet just the minute he saw the horseman, who 
had galloped all the way from Lexington, to find him 
in Connecticut, he went right off to fight for his 
country, never thinking of pay or of being made a 
Lieutenant-General. He was ploughing, and left his 
team with the boy. He did not go to the house, nor 
stop to change his clothes ; but ran to the barn, har- 
nessed a swift horse, and was off for Cambridge.” 

“And how he did fight on Bunker Hill. Father 
thinks that if his men had not been afraid, but had 
turned from their retreat when he tried to rally them, 
they could have whipped the British and the victory 
had been ours,” said Wrist-ruffles. 

“And it was then,” replied Round-face, “that he 
swore and cursed ; for he said it was ‘ almost enough 
to make an angel swear to see the cowards refuse to 
secure a victory so easily won.’ But after the war 
was over he confessed this in the church of which he 
was a member. And pa says the old man was never 
more of a hero than when standing there, leaning 
upon crutches, he humbly confessed his faults.” 



THE ONLY WOMAN IN THE TOWN. 



NE hundred years and one ago, in Boston, at 


V^/ ten of the clock one April night, a church 
steeple had been climbed and a lantern hung out. 

At ten, the same night, in mid-river of the Charles, 
oarsmen two, with passenger silent and grim, had 
seen the signal light out-swung, and rowed with speed 
for the Charlestown shore. 

At eleven, the moon was risen, and the grim pas- 
senger, Paul Revere, had ridden up the Neck, en- 
countered a foe, who opposed his ride into the coun- 
try, and, after a brief delay, rode on, leaving a British 
officer lying in a clay pit. 

At mid-night, a hundred ears had heard the flying 
horseman cry, “ Up and arm. The Regulars are 
coming out ! ” 

You know the story well. You have heard how 


The Only Woman in the Town. 

the wild alarm ran from voice to voice and echoed 
beneath every roof, until the men of Lexington and 
Concord were stirred and aroused with patriotic fear 
for the safety of the public stores that had been com- 
mitted to their keeping. 

You know how long ere the chill April day began 
to dawn, they had drawn, by horse power and by hand 
power, the cherished stores into safe hiding-places in 
the depth of friendly forest-coverts. 

There is one thing about that day that you have 
not heard and I will tell you now. It is, how one lit- 
tle woman staid in the town of Concord, whence all 
the women save her had fled. 

All the houses that were standing then, are very 
old-fashioned now, but there was one dwelling-place 
on Concord Common that was old-fashioned even 
then ! It was the abode of Martha Moulton and 
“ Uncle John.” Just who “ Uncle John ” was, is not 
now known, but he was probably Martha Moulton’s 
uncle. The uncle, it appears by record, was eighty 
five years old ; while the niece was only three-score 
and eleven. 

Once and again that morning, a friendly hand had 
pulled the latch-string at Martha Moulton’s kitchen 
entrance and offered to convey herself and treasures 
away, but, to either proffer, she had said : “ No, I 


The Only Woman in the Town. 

must stay until Uncle John gets the cricks out of his 
back, if all the British soldiers in the land march into 
town. 

At last, came Joe Devins, a lad of fifteen years — 
Joe’s two astonished eyes peered for a moment into 
Martha Moulton’s kitchen, and then eyes and owner 
dashed into the room, to learn, what the sight he 
there saw, could mean. 

“ Whew ! Mother Moulton, what are you doing ? ” 

“I’m getting Uncle John his breakfast to be sure, 
Joe,” she answered. “ Have you seen so many sights 
this morning that you don’t know breakfast, when you 
see it ? Have a care there, for hot fat will burn,” 
as she deftly poured the contents of a pan, fresh from 
the fire, into a dish. 

Hungry Joe had been astir since the first drum had 
beat to arms at two of the clock. He gave one 
glance at the boiling cream and the slices of crisp 
pork swimming in it, as he gasped forth the words, 
“ Getting breakfast in Concord this morning ! Mother 
Moulton , you must be crazy.” 

“ So they tell me,” she said, serenely. “ There 
comes Uncle John ! ” she added, as the clatter of a 
staff on the stone steps of the stairway outrang, for an 
instant, the cries of hurrying and confusion that filled 
the air of the street. 


The Only Woman in the Town. 

“Don’t you know, Mother Moulton,” Joe went on 
to say, “ that every single woman and child have been 
carried off, where the Britishers won’t find ’em ? ” 

“ I don’t believe the king’s troops have stirred out 
of Boston,” she replied, going to the door leading to 
the stone staircase. To open it for Uncle John. 

“ Don’t believe it ? ” and Joe looked, as he echoed 
the words, as though only a boy could feel sufficient 
disgust at such want of common sense, in full view of 
the fact, that Reuben Brown had just brought the 
news that eight men had been killed by the king’s 
Red Coats, in Lexington, which fact he made haste to 
impart. 

“ I won’t believe a word of it,” she said, stoutly, 
“ until I see the soldiers coming.” 

“Ah! Hear that!” cried Joe, tossing back his 
hair and swinging his arms triumphantly at an airy 
foe. “You won’t have to wait long. That signal is 
for the minute men. They are going to march out to 
meet the Red Coats. Wish I was a minute man, this 
minute.” 

Meanwhile, poor Uncle John was getting down the 
steps of the stairway, with many a grimace and groan. 
As he touched the floor, Joe, his face beaming with 
excitement and enthusiasm, sprang to place a chair 
for him at the table, saying, “ Good morning,” at the 
same moment. 


The Only Woman in the Town. 

“ May be,” groaned Uncle John, “ youngsters like 
you may think it is a good morning, but I don't, such 
a din and clatter as the fools have kept up all night 
long. If I had the power” (and now the poor old 
man fairly groaned with rage), “ I’d make ’em quiet 
long enough to let an old man get a wink of sleep, 
when the rheumatism lets go.” 

“I’m real sorry for you,” said Joe, “but you don’t 
know the news. The king’s troops, from camp, in 
Boston, are marching right down here, to carry off all 
our arms that they can find.” 

“ Are they ? ” was the sarcastic rejoinder. “ It’s 
the best news I’ve heard in a long while. Wish they 
had my arms, this minute. They wouldn’t carry them 
a step farther than they could help, I know. Run 
and tell them mine are ready, Joe.” 

“ But, Uncle John, wait till after breakfast, you’ll 
want to use them once more,” said Martha Moulton, 
trying to help him into the chair that Joe had placed 
on the white sanded floor. 

Meanwhile, Joe Devins had ears for all the sounds 
that penetrated the kitchen from out of doors, and he 
had eyes for the slices of well-browned pork and the 
golden hued Johnny-cake lying before the glowing 
coals on the broad hearth. 

As the little woman bent to take up the breakfast, 
Joe, intent on doing some kindness for her in the way 


The Only Woman in the Town. 

of saving treasures, asked, “ Shan’t I help you, Mother 
Moulton ? ” 

“ I reckon I am not so old that I can’t lift a mite 
of corn-bread,” she replied with chilling severity. 

“ Oh, I didn’t mean to lift that thing” he made 
haste to explain, “ but to carry off things and hide 
’em away, as everybody else has been doing half the 
night. I know a first-rate place up in the woods. 
Used to be a honey tree, you know, and it’s just as 
hollow as anything. Silver spoons and things would 
be just as safe in it — ” but Joe’s words were inter- 
rupted by unusual tumult on the street and he ran off 
to learn the news, intending to return and get the 
breakfast that had been offered to him. 

Presently he rushed back to the house with cheeks 
aflame and eyes ablaze with excitement. “ They’re a 
coming ! ” he cried. “ They’re in sight down by the 
rocks. They see ’em marching, the men on the hill, do ! ” 

“ You don’t mean that its really true that the sol 
diers are coming here, right into our town” cried Mar- 
tha Moulton, rising in haste and bringing together 
with rapid flourishes to right and to left, every frag- 
ment of silver on it. Divining her intent, Uncle John 
strove to hold fast his individual spoon, but she 
twitched it without ceremony out from his rheumatic 
old fingers, and ran next to the parlor cupboard, 
wherein lay her movable treasures. 


The Only Woman in the Town. 

“ What in the world shall I do with them,” she 
cried, returning with her apron well filled with treas- 
ures, and borne down by the weight thereof. 

“Give ’em to me,” cried Joe. “Here’s a basket, 
drop ’em in, and I’ll run like a brush-fire through the 
town and across the old bridge, and hide ’em as safe 
as a weasels nap.” 

Joe’s fingers were creamy ; his mouth was half filled 
with Johnny-cake, and his pocket on the right bulged 
to its utmost capacity with the same, as he held forth 
the basket ; but the little woman was afraid to trust 
him, as she had been afraid to trust her neighbors. 

“ No ! No ! ” she replied, to his repeated offers. 
“ I know what I’ll do. You, Joe Devins, stay right 
where you are till I come back, and, don’t you ever 
look out of the window.” 

“ Dear, dear me ! ” she cried, flushed and anxious 
when she was out of sight of Uncle John and Joe, 
I wish I’d given ’em to Col. Barrett when he was 
here before daylight, only, I was afraid I should never 
get sight of them again.” 

She drew off one of her stockings filled it, tied the 
opening at the top with a string — plunged stocking 
and all into a pail full of water and proceeded to pour 
the contents into the well. 

Just as the dark circle had closed over the blue 
stockings, Joe Devin’s face peered down the depths 


The Only Woman in the Town. 


by her side, and his voice sounded out the words : 
“ O Mother Moulton, the British will search the wells 
the very first thing. Of course, they expect to find 
things in wells ! ” 

“ Why didn’t you tell me before, Joe ? but now it is 
too late.” 

“I would, if I’d known what you was going to do 
they’d been a sight safer, in the honey tree.” 

“ Yes, and what a fool I’ve been' — flung my watch 
into the well with the spoons ! ” 

“ Well, well ! Don’t stand there, looking,” as she 
hovered over the high curb, with her hand on the 
bucket. Everybody will know, if you do, there.” 

“Martha! Martha?” shrieked Uncle John’s qua- 
vering voice from the house door. 

“ Bless my heart ! ” she exclaimed, hurrying back 
over the stones. 

“ What’s the matter with your heart ? ” questioned 
Joe. 

“ Nothing. I was thinking of Uncle John’s money,” 
she answered. 

“Has he got money?” cried Joe. “*I thought he 
was poor, and you took care of him because you were 
so good ! ” 

Not one word that Joe uttered did the little woman 
hear. She was already by Uncle John’s side and ask- 
ing him for the key to his strong box. 


The Only Woman in the Town. 

Uncle John’s rheumatism was terribly exasperating. 
“ No, I won’t give it to you ! ” he cried, “ and nobody 
shall have it as long as I’m above ground.” 

“ Then the soldiers will carry it off,” she said. 

“ Let ’em ! ” was his reply, grasping his staff firmly 
with both hands and gleaming defiance out of his 
wide, pale eyes. “ You won’t get the key, even if 
they do.” 

At this instant, a voice at the doorway shouted the 
words, “ Hide, hide away somewhere, Mother Moul- 
ton, for the Red-coats are in sight this minute ! ” 

She heard the warning, and giving one glance at 
Uncle John, which look was answered by another. 
“No, you won’t have it,” she grasped Joe Devins by 
the collar of his jacket and thrust him before her up 
the staircase, so quickly that the boy had no chance 
to speak, until she released her hold on the second 
floor, at the entrance to Uncle John’s room. 

The idea of being taken prisoner in such a manner, 
and by a woman, too, was too much for the lad’s en- 
durance. “ Let me go ? ” he cried, the instant he 
could recover his breath. “ I won’t hide away in your 
garret, like a woman, I won’t. I want to see the mil- 
itia and the minute men fight the troops, I do.” 

“ Help me first, Joe. Here, quick now ; let’s get 
this box out and up garret. We’ll hide it under the 
corn and it’ll be safe,” she coaxed. 


Thv Only Womcm in the Town. 

The box was under Uncle John’s bed. 

“ What’s in the old thing any how ? ” questioned 
Joe, pulling with all his strength at it. 

The box, or chest, was painted red, and was bound 
about by massive iron bands. 

“I’ve never seen the inside of it,” said Mother 
Moulton. “ It holds the poor old soul’s sole treasure, 
and I do want to save it for him if I can.” 

They had drawn it with much hard endeavor, as 
far as the garret stairs, but their united strength 
failed to lift it. “Heave it, now!” cried Joe, and 
lo ! it was up two steps. So they turned it over and 
over with many a thudding thump ; every one of 
which thumps Uncle John heard, and believed to be 
strokes upon the box itself, to burst it asunder, until 
it was fairly shelved on the garret floor. 

In the very midst of the overturnings, a voice from 
below had been heard crying out, “ Let my box alone ! 
Don’t you break it open. If you do, I’ll — I’ll — ” 
but, whatever the poor man meant to threaten as a 
penalty, he could not think of anything half severe 
enough to say and so left it uncertain as to the pun- 
ishment that might be looked for. 

“ Poor old soul ! ” ejaculated the little woman, her 
soft white curls in disorder and the pink color rising 
from her cheeks to her fair forehead, as she bent to 


The Only Woman in the Town. 

help Joe drag the box beneath the rafter’s edge. 

“Now, Joe,” she said, “we’ll heap nubbins over it, 
and if the soldiers want corn they’ll take good ears 
and never think of touching poor nubbins ; so they 
fell to work throwing corn over the red chest, until it 
was completely concealed from view. 

Then he sprang to the high-up-window ledge in the 
point of the roof and took one glance out. “ Oh, I 
see them, the Red-coats ! Strue’s I live, there go one 
militia up the hill. I thought they was going to stand 
and defend. Shame on ’em, I say.” Jumping down 
and crying back to Mother Moulton, “ I’m going to 
stand by the minute men,” he went down, three steps 
at a leap, and nearly overturned Uncle John on the 
stairs, who, with many groans was trying to get to the 
defense of his strong box. 

“What did you help her for, you scamp,” he de- 
manded of Joe, flourishing his staff unpleasantly near 
the lad’s head. 

“ ’Cause she asked me to, and couldn’t do it alone,” 
returned Joe, dodging the stick and disappearing 
from the scene, at the very moment Martha Moulton 
encountered Uncle John. 

“ Your strong box is safe under nubbins in the gar- 
ret, unless the house burns down, and now that you 
are up here, you had better stay,” she added sooth- 


The Only Woman in the Town. 

ingly, as she hastened by him to reach the kitchen 
below. 

Once there, she paused a second or two to take 
resolution regarding her next act. She knew full 
well that there was not one second to spare, and yet 
she stood looking, apparently, into the glowing em- 
bers on the hearth. She was flushed and excited, 
both by the unwonted toil, and the coming events. 
Cobwebs from the rafters had fallen on her hair and 
home-spun dress, and would readily have betrayed her 
late occupation, to any discerning soldier of the king. 

A smile broke suddenly over her fair face, displac 
ing for a brief second every trace of care. “ It’s my 
only weapon, and I must use it,” she said, making a 
stately courtesy to an imaginary guest and straightway 
disappeared within an adjoining room. With but- 
toned door and dropped curtains the little woman 
made haste to array herself in her finest raiment. In 
five minutes she reappeared in the kitchen, a picture 
pleasant to look at. In all New England, there could 
not be a more beautiful little old lady than Martha 
Moulton was that day. Her hair was guiltless now 
)f cobwebs, but haloed her face with fluffy little curls 
of silvery whiteness, above which, like a crown, was a 
little cap of dotted muslin, pure as snow. Her erect 
figure, not a particle of the hard-working-day in it 
uow, carried well the folds of a sheeny, black silk 


The Only Woman in the Town. 

gown, over which she had tied an apron as spotless 
as the cap. 

As she fastened back her gown and hurried away 
the signs of the breakfast she had not eaten, the clear 
pink tints seemed to come out with added beauty of 
coloring in her cheeks ; while her hair seemed fairer 
and whiter than at any moment in her three-score and 
eleven years. 

Once more Joe Devins looked in. As he caught 
a glimpse of the picture she made, he paused to cry 
out : “ All dressed up to meet the robbers ! My, how 
fine you do look ! I wouldn’t. I’d go and hide be- 
hind the nubbins. They’ll be here in less than five 
minutes now,” he cried, “and I’m going over the 
North Bridge to see what’s going on there.” 

“O Joe, stay, won’t you?” she urged, but the lad 
was gone, and she was left alone to meet the foe, 
comforting herself with the thought, “They’ll treat 
me with more respect if I look respectable, and if I 
must die, I’ll die good-looking in my best clothes, 
anyhow.” 

She threw a few sticks of hickory-wood on the em- 
bers, and then drew out the little round stand, on 
which the family Bible was always lying. Recollect- 
ing that the British soldiers probably belonged to the 
Church of England, she hurried away to fetch Uncle 
John’s “prayer-book.” 


The Only Woman in the Towji. 

“ They’ll have respect to me, if they find me read 
ing that, I know,” she thought. Having drawn the 
round stand within sight of the well, and where she 
could also command a view of the staircase, she sat 
and waited for coming events. 

Uncle John was keeping watch of the advancing 
troops from an upper window. “ Martha,” he called, 
“you’d better come up. They’re close by, now.” 
To tell the truth, Uncle John himself was a little 
afraid; that is to say he hadn’t quite courage enough 
to go down, and, perhaps, encounter his own rheuma- 
tism and the king’s soldiers on the same stairway, 
and yet, he felt that he must defend Martha as well 
as he could. 

The rap of a musket, quick and ringing on the 
front door, startled the little woman from her apparent 
devotions. She did not move at the call of anything 
so profane. It was the custom of the time to have the 
front door divided into two parts, the lower half and 
the upper half. The former was closed and made 
fast, the upper could be swung open at will. 

The soldier getting no reply, and doubtless think- 
ing that the house was deserted, leaped over the 
chained lower half of the door. 

At the clang of his bayonet against the brass trim- 
mings, Martha Moulton groaned in spirit, for, if there 


The Only Woman in the Town. 

was any one thing that she deemed essential to he! 
comfort in this life, it was to keep spotless, speckless 
and in every way unhaimed, the great knocker on 
her front door. 

“ Good, sound English metal, too,” she thought, 
“ that an English soldier ought to know how to re- 
spect.” 

As she heard the tramp of coming feet she only 
bent the closer over the Book of Prayer that lay open 
on her knee. Not one word did she read or see ; she 
was inwardly trembling and outwardly watching the 
well and the staircase. But now, above all other 
sounds, broke the noise of Uncle John’s staff thrash- 
ing the upper step of the staircase, and the shrill 
tremulous cry of the old man defiant, doing his ut- 
most for the defense of his castle. 

The fingers that lay beneath the book tingled with 
desire to box the old man’s ears, for the policy he was 
pursuing would be fatal to the treasure in garret and 
in well ; but she was forced to silence and inactivity. 

As the king’s troops, Major Pitcairn at their head, 
reached the open door and saw the old lady, they 
paused. What could they do but look, for a moment, 
at the unexpected sight that met their view : a placid 
old lady in black silk and dotted muslin, with all the 
sweet solemnity of morning devotion hovering about 


The 0?ily Woman in ihe Town. 

the tidy apartment and seeming to centre at the 
round stand by which she sat, this pretty woman, with 
pink and white face surmounted with fleecy little 
curls and crinkles and wisps of floating whiteness, 
who looked up to meet their gaze with such innocent 
prayer-suffused eyes. 

“ Good morning, Mother,” said Major Pitcairn, 
raising his hat. 

“ Good morning, gentleman and soldiers,” returned 
Martha Moulton. “ You will pardon my not meeting 
you at the door, when you see that I was occupied in 
rendering service to the Lord of all.” She reverently 
closed the book, laid it on the table, and arose, with 
a stately bearing, to demand their wishes. 

“We’re hungry, good woman,” spoke the com- 
mander, “ and your hearth is the only hospitable one 
we’ve seen since we left Boston. With your good 
leave I’ll take a bit of this, and he stooped to lift up 
the Johnny-cake that had been all this while on the 
hearth. 

“ I wish I had something better to offer you,” she 
said, making haste to fetch plates and knives from 
the corner-cupboard, and all the while she was keep- 
ing eye-guard over the well. “ I’m afraid the Con- 
corders haven’t left much for you to-day,” she added, 
with a soft sigh of regret, as though she really felt 
sorry that such brave men and good soldiers had 


The Only Woman in the Town. 

fallen on hard times in the ancient town. At the mo- 
ment she had brought forth bread and baked beans, 
and was putting them on the table* a voice rang into 
the room, causing every eye to turn toward Uncle 
John. He had gotten down the stairs without uttering 
one audible groan, and was standing, one step above 
the floor of the room, brandishing and whirling his staff 
about in a manner to cause even rheumatism to flee 
the place, while, at the top of his voice he cried out : 

“ Martha Moulton, how dare you feed these — these 
— monsters — in human form ! ” 

“ Don’t mind him, gentlemen, please don’t,” she 
made haste to say ; “ he’s old, very old ; eighty-five, 
his last birthday, and — a little hoity-toity at times,” 
pointing deftly with her finger in the region of the 
reasoning powers in her own shapely head. 

Summoning Major Pitcairn by an offer of a dish of 
beans, she contrived to say, under cover of it : 

“ You see, sir, I couldn’t go away and leave him ; 
he is almost distracted with rheumatism, and this ex- 
citement to-day will kill him, I’m afraid.” 

Advancing toward the staircase with bold and sol- 
dierly front, Major Pitcairn said to Uncle John : 

“ Stand aside, old man, and we’ll hold you harm- 
less.” 

“ I don’t believe you will, you red-trimmed trooper, 
you,” was the reply ; and, with a dexterous swing of 


The Only Woman in the Town. 

the wooden staff, he mowed off and down three mili- 
tary hats. 

Before any one had time to speak, Martha Moulton, 
adroitly stooping, as though to recover Major Pit- 
cairn’s hat, which had rolled to her feet, swung the 
stairway-door into its place with a resounding bang, 
and followed up that achievement with a swift turn of 
two large wooden buttons, one high up, and the other 
low down, on the door. 

“ There ! ” she said, “ he is safe out of mischief 
for awhile, and your heads are safe as well. Pardon 
a poor old man, who does not know what he is about.” 

“ He seems to know remarkably well,” exclaimed an 
officer. 

Meanwhile, behind the strong door, Uncle John’s 
wrath knew no bounds. In his frantic endeavors to 
burst the fastenings of the wooden buttons, rheumatic 
cramps seized him and carried the day, leaving him 
out of the battle. 

Meanwhile, a portion of the soldiery clustered about 
the door. The king’s horses were fed within five feet of 
the great brass knocker, while, within the house, the 
beautiful little old woman, in her Sunday-best-raiment, 
tried to do the dismal honors of the day to the foes of her 
country. Watching her, one would have thought she 
was entertaining heroes returned from the achieve- 


The Only Womati in the Town. 

ment of valiant deeds, whereas, in her own heart, she 
knew full well that she was giving a little to save much. 

Nothing could exceed the seeming alacrity with 
which she fetched water from the well for the officers : 
and, when Major Pitcairn gallantly ordered his men 
to do the service, the little soul was in alarm ; she was 
so afraid that “ somehow, in some way or another, the 
blue stocking would get hitched on to the bucket.” 
She knew that she must to its rescue, and so she 
bravely acknowledged herself to have taken a vow 
(when, she did not say), to draw all the water that was 
taken from that well. 

“ A remnant of witchcraft ! ” remarked a soldier 
within hearing. 

“ Do I look like a witch ? ” she demanded. 

“ If you do,” replied Major Pitcairn, “ I admire 
New England witches, and never would condemn one 
to be hung, or burned, or — smothered.” 

Martha Moulton never wore so brilliant a color on 
her aged cheeks as at that moment. She felt bitter 
shame at the ruse she had attempted, but silver 
spoons were precious, and, to escape the smile that 
went around at Major Pitcairn’s words, she.was only 
too glad to go again to the well and dip slowly the 
high, over-hanging sweep into the cool, clear, dark 
depth below. 


The Only Woman in the Town. 

During this time the cold, frosty morning spent 
itself into the brilliant, shining noon. 

You know what happened at Concord on that 19th 
of April in the year 1775. You have been told the 
story, how the men of Acton met and resisted the 
king’s troops at the old North Bridge, how brave 
Captain Davis and minute-man Hosmer fell, how the 
sound of their falling struck down to the very heart of 
mother earth, and caused her to send forth her brave 
sons to cry “ Liberty, or Death ! ” 

And the rest of the story ; the sixty or more barrels 
of flour that the king’s troops found and struck the 
heads from, leaving the flour in condition to be gath- 
ered again at nightfall, the arms and powder that they 
destroyed, the houses they burned ; all these, are they 
not recorded in every child’s history in the land ? 

While these things were going on, for a brief while, 
at mid-day, Martha Moulton found her home deserted. 
She had not forgotten poor, suffering, irate Uncle 
John in the regions above, and so, the very minute 
she had the chance, she made a strong cup of catnip 
tea (the real tea, you know, was brewing in Boston 
harbor). 

She turned the buttons, and, with a bit of trembling 
at her heart, such as she had not felt all day, she ven- 
tured up the stairs, bearing the steaming peace-offering 
before her. 


The Only Woman in the Town . 

Uncle John was writhing under the sharp thorns 
and twinges of his old enemy, and in no frame of 
mind to receive any overtures in the shape of catnip 
tea • nevertheless, he was watching, as well as he was 
able, the motions of the enemy. As she drew near 
he cried out : 

“ Look out this window, and see ! Much good all 
your scheming will do you!” 

She obeyed his command to look, and the sight she 
then saw caused her to let fall the cup of catnip tea 
and rush down the stairs, wringing her hands as she 
went and crying out : 

“ Oh, dear ! what shall I do ? The house will burn 
and the box up garret. Everything’s lost ! ” 

Major Pitcairn, at that moment, was on the green 
in front of her door, giving orders. 

Forgetting the dignified part she intended to play, 
forgetting everything but the supreme danger that was 
hovering in mid-air over her home — the old house 
wherein she had been born, and the only home she 
had ever known — she rushed out upon the green, 
amid the troops, and surrounded by cavalry, and made 
her way to Major Pitcairn. 

“The town-house is on fire ! ” she cried, laying her 
hand upon the commander’s arm. 

He turned and looked at her. Major Pitcairn had 
recently learned that the task he had been set to do 


The Only Woman in the Town 

in the provincial towns that day was not an easy one ; 
that, when hard pressed and trodden down, the de- 
spised rustics, in home-spun dress, could sting even 
English soldiers ; and thus it happened that, when he 
felt the touch of Mother Moulton’s plump little old 
fingers on his military sleeve, he was not in the pleas- 
ant humor that he had been, when the same hand had 
ministered to his hunger in the early morning. 

“ Well, what of it ? Let it burn ! We won’t hurt 
you, if you go in the house and stay there ! ” 

She turned and glanced up at the court-house. 
Already flames were issuing from it. “Go in the 
house and let it burn, indeed!” thought she. “He 
knows me, don’t he ? Oh, sir ! for the love of Heaven 
won’t you stop it ? ” she said, entreatingly. 

“ Run in the house, good mother. That is a wise 
woman,” he advised. 

Down in her heart, and as the very outcome of lip 
and brain she wanted to say, “ You needn’t ‘ mother’ 
me, you murderous rascals ! ” but, remembering every- 
thing that was at stake, she crushed her wrath and 
buttoned it in as closely as she had Uncle John behind 
the door in the morning, and again, with swift gentle- 
ness, laid her hand on his arm. 

He turned and looked at her. Vexed at her per- 
sistence, and extremely annoyed at intelligence that 


The Only Woman in ihe Town. 

had just reached him from the North Bridge, he said, 
imperiously, “ Get away ! or you’ll be trodden down 
by the horses ! ” 

“ I can't go ! ” she cried, clasping his arm, and 
fairly clinging to it in her frenzy of excitement. “ Oh 
stop the fire, quick, quick ! or my house will burn ! ” 

“ I have no time to put out your fires,” he said, care 
lessly, shaking loose from her hold and turning to meet- 
a messenger with news. 

Poor little woman ! What could she do ? The 
wind was rising, and the fire grew. Flame was creep- 
ing out in a little blue curl in a new place, under the 
rafter’s edge, and nobody cared. That was what in 
creased the pressing misery of it all. It was so unlike 
a common country alarm, where everybody rushed up 
and down the streets, crying “ Fire ! fire ! f-i-r-e ! ” and 
went hurrying to and fro for pails of water to help 
put it out. 

Until that moment the little woman did not know 
how utterly deserted she was. 

In very despair, she ran to her house, seized two 
pails, filled them with greater haste than she had ever 
drawn water before, and, regardless of Uncle John’s 
imprecations, carried them forth, one in either hand, 
the water dripping carelessly down the side breadths 
of her fair silk gown, her silvery curls tossed and turn- 


The Only Woman in the Town. 

bled in white confusion, her pleasant face aflame with 
eagerness, and her clear eyes suffused with tears. 

Thus equipped with facts and feeling, she once 
more appeared to Major Pitcairn. 

“ Have you a mother in old England ? ” she cried. 
“ If so, for her sake, stop this fire.” 

Her words touched his heart. 

“ And if I do — ? ” he answered. 

“ Then y our johnny-cake on my hearth ivon't burn up” 
she said, with a quick little smile, adjusting her cap. 

Major Pitcairn laughed, and two soldiers, at his 
command, seized the pails and made haste to the 
court-house, followed by many more. 

For awhile the fire seemed victorious, but, by brave 
effort, it was finally overcome, and the court-house 
saved. 

At a distance Joe Devins had noticed the smoke 
hovering like a little cloud, then sailing away still 
more like a cloud over the town ; and he had made 
haste to the scene, arriving in time to venture on the 
roof, and do good service there. 

After the fire was extinguished, he thought of Mar- 
tha Moulton, and he could not help feeling a bit 
guilty at the consciousness that he had gone off and 
left her alone. 

Going to the house he found her entertaining the 


The Only Woman in the Town. 

king’s troopers with the best food her humble store 
afforded. 

She was so charmed with herself, and so utterly 
well pleased with the success of her pleading, that 
the little woman’s nerves fairly quivered with jubila- 
tion ; and best of all, the blue stocking was still safe 
in the well, for had she not watched with her own 
eyes every time the bucket was dipped to fetch up 
water for the fire, having, somehow, got rid of the vow 
she had taken regarding the drawing of the water. 

As she saw the lad looking, with surprised counte- 
nance, into the room where the feast was going on, a 
fear crept up her own face and darted out from her 
eyes. It was, lest Joe Devins should spoil it all by 
ill-timed words. 

She made haste to meet him, basket in hand. 

“ Here, Joe,” she said, “fetch me some small wood, 
there’s a good boy.” 

As she gave him the basket she was just in time to 
stop the rejoinder that was issuing from his lips. 

In time to intercept his return she was at the wood- 
pile. 

“Joe,” she said, half-abashed before the truth that 
shone in the boy’s eyes, “ Joe,” she repeated, “ you 
know Major Pitcairn ordered the fire put out, to please 
me , because I begged him so, and, in return, what can 


The Only Woman in the Town. 

I do but give them something to eat. Come and 
help me.” 

“ I won’t,” responded Joe. “Their hands are red 
with blood. They’ve killed two men at the bridge.” 

“Who’s killed?” she asked, trembling, but Joe 
would not tell her. He demanded to know what had 
been done with Uncle John. 

“ He’s quiet enough, up-stairs,” she replied, with a 
sudden spasm of feeling that she te/neglected Uncle 
John shamefully ; still, with the day, and the fire and 
everything, how could she help it ? but, really, it did 
seem strange that he made no noise, with a hundred 
armed men coming and going through the house. 

At least, that was what Joe thought, and, having 
deposited the basket of wood on the threshold of the 
kitchen door, he departed around the corner of the 
house. Presently he had climbed a pear-tree, dropped 
from one of its overhanging branches on the lean-to, 
raised a sash and crept into the window. 

Slipping off his shoes, heavy with spring mud, he 
proceeded to search for Uncle John. He was not in 
his own room ; he was not in the guest-chamber ; he 
was not in any one of the rooms. 

On the floor, by the window in the hall, looking out 
upon the green, he found the broken cup and saucer 
that Martha Moulton had let fall. Having made a 


The Only Woman in the Town. 

second round, in which he investigated every closet 
and penetrated into the spaces under beds, Joe 
thought of the garret. 

Tramp, tramp went the heavy feet on the sanded 
floors below, drowning every possible sound from 
above ; nevertheless, as the lad opened the door lead- 
ing into the garret, he whispered cautiously : “ Uncle 
John! Uncle John!” 

All was silent above. Joe went up, and was startled 
by a groan. He had to stand a few seconds, to let 
the darkness grow into light, ere he could see ; and, 
when he could discern outlines in the dimness, there 
was given to him the picture of Uncle John, lying 
helpless amid and upon the nubbins that had been 
piled over his strong box. 

“ Why, Uncle John, are you dead ? ” asked Joe, 
climbing over to his side. 

“ Is the house afire ? ” was the response. 

“ House afire ? No ! The confounded red-coats up 
and put it out.” 

“ I thought they was going to let me burn to death 
up here ! '” groaned Uncle John. 

“ Can I help you up ? ” and Joe proffered two 
strong hands, rather black with toil and smoke. 

“ No, no ! You can’t help me. If the house isn’t 
afire, I’ll stand it till the fellows are gone, and then, 


The Only Woman in the Town . 

Joe, you fetch the doctor as quick as you can.” 

“ You can’t get a doctor for love nor money this 
night, Uncle John. There’s too much work to be done 
in Lexington and Concord to-night for wounded and 
dying men ; and there’ll be more of ’em too afore a 
single red-coat sees Boston again. They’ll be hunted 
down every step of the way. They’ve killed Captain 
Davis, from Acton.” 

“ You don’t say so ! ” 

“ Yes, they have, and — ” 

“ I say, Joe Devins, go down and do — do some- 
thing. There’s my niece , a-feeding the murderers ! 
I’ll disown her. She shan’t have a penny of my 
pounds, she shan’t ! ” 

Both Joe and Uncle John were compelled to re- 
main in inaction, while below, the weary little woman 
acted the kind hostess to His Majesty’s troops. 

But now the feast was spent, and the soldiers were 
summoned to begin their painful march. Assembled 
on the green, all was ready, when Major Pitcairn, re- 
membering the little woman who had ministered to 
his wants, returned to the house to say farewell. 

’Twas but a step to her door, and but a moment 
since he had left it, but he found her crying ; crying 
with joy, in the very chair where he had found her at 
prayers in the morning. 

“I would like to say good-by,” he said; “you’ve 


The Only Woman in the Town. 

been very kind to me to-day.” 

With a quick dash or two of the dotted white apron 
(spotless no longer) to her eye, she arose. Major 
Pitcairn extended his hand, but she folded her own 
closely together, and said : 

“ I wish you a pleasant journey back to Boston, sir.” 

“Will you not shake hands with me before I go ? ” 

“ I can feed the enemy of my country, but shake 
hands with him, never!” 

For the first time that day, the little woman’s love 
of country seemed to rise triumphant within her, and 
drown every impulse to selfishness; or was it the 
nearness to safety that she felt? Human conduct is 
the result of so many motives that it is sometimes im- 
possible to name the compound, although on that 
occasion Martha Moulton labelled it “ Patriotism.” 

“And yet I put out the fire for you,” he said. 

“ For your mother’s sake, in old England, it was, 
you remember, sir.” 

“ I remember,” said Major Pitcairn, with a sigh, as 
he turned away. 

“ And for her sake I will shake hands with you,” 
said Martha Moulton. 

So he turned back, and, across the threshold, in 
presence of the waiting troops, the commander of the 
expedition to Concord and the only woman in the 
town shook hands at parting. 


The Only Woman in the Town. 


Martha Moulton saw Major Pitcairn mount his 
horse ; heard the order given for the march to begin, 
— the march of which you all have heard. You 
know what a sorry time the red-coats had of it in get- 
ting back to Boston ; how they were fought at, every 
inch of the way, and waylaid from behind every con- 
venient tree-trunk, and shot at from tree-tops, and 
aimed at from upper windows, and besieged from be- 
hind stone walls, and, in short, made so miserable and 
harassed and overworn, that at last their depleted 
ranks, with the tongues of the men parched and hang- 
ing, were fain to lie down by the road-side and take 
what came next, even though it might be death. And 
then the dead they left behind them ! 

Ah ! there’s nothing wholesome to mind or body 
about war, until long, long after it is over, and the 
earth has had time to hide the blood, and sent it forth 
in sweet blooms of liberty, with forget-me-nots spring- 
ing thick between. 

The men of that day are long dead. The same 
soil holds regulars and minute-men. England, who 
over-ruled, and the provinces, that put out brave hands 
to seize their rights, are good friends to-day, and have 
shaken hands over many a threshold of hearty thought 
and kind deeds since that time. 

The tree of Liberty grows yet, stately and fair, for 
the men of the Revolution planted it well and surely. 


The Only Woman in the Town. 

God himself hath given it increase. So we gather 
to-day, in this our story, a forget-me-not more, from 
the old town of Concord. 

When the troops had marched away, the weary little 
woman laid aside her silken gown, resumed her home- 
spun dress, and immediately began to think of getting 
Uncle John down-stairs again into his easy chair; but 
it required more aid than she could give to lift the 
fallen man. At last Joe Devins summoned returning 
neighbors, who came to the rescue, and the poor nub- 
bins were left to the rats once more. 

Joe climbed down the well and rescued the blue 
stocking, with its treasures unharmed, even to the 
precious watch, which watch was Martha Moulton’s 
chief treasure, and one of very few in the town. 

Martha Moulton was the heroine of the day. The 
house was besieged by admiring men and women 
that night and for two or three days thereafter ; but 
when, years later, she being older, and poorer, even to 
want, petitioned the General Court for a reward for 
the service she rendered in persuading Major Pitcairn 
to save the court-house from burning, there was 
granted to her only fifteen dollars, a poor little forget- 
me-not, it is true, but just enough to carry her story 
down the years, whereas, but for that, it might never 
have been wafted up and down the land, on the wings 
of this Wide Awake. 


A DEER HUNT. 



“LICK ” is a salt spring, so called by hunters 


because wild animals resort to it and lick the 
briny ground. The writer has seen the vicinity of 
such springs trodden by the beasts of the forest as 
hard as a cattle-yard. A singular trait of many wild 
creatures is never to seek drink or salt by daylight, 
instinct seeming to tell them that safety requires such 
visits to be made at night. 

The incident I am about to relate occurred in 
Ohio, in the autumn of 1812, while the Indians were 
on the war path ; but as the settlement where it hap- 
pened was not so far to the front as many others, it 
was not thought to be in so great danger. However, 
every family was provided with arms, and a log fort 
had been built as a defence in case of need. 

One day, just at dusk, Robert Page and his son 
Jimmy, an athletic lad of sixteen, posted themselves 


A Deer Hunt. 


on a rude scaffolding twenty or thirty feet from the 
ground, in an enormous branching tree within short 
gun-shot of a lick. From this perch a clear view 
opened toward the lick, while on moonlight nights 
the trodden space was distinctly visible. Here they 
had often concealed themselves to obtain venison for 
the family, and, having fixed their guns in rest, re- 
mained as silent as the trees around until the game 
appeared. 

On the night in question, several hours passed 
while our hunters listened intently for noises denot- 
ing the approach of game. 

At last the boy’s quick hearing detected footsteps. 
Distant and faint at first, they steadily drew nearer, 
but, at the same time, they were so heavy and inelas- 
tic, unlike the steps of wild animals, that the listeners 
were mystified if not alarmed. On they came, tramp- 
ling through the woods, and as they emerged into the 
moonlight in the vacant spot near the spring, Mr. 
Page and Jimmy counted a war party of sixteen In- 
dians. Much to their surprise the red men halted 
and building a fire on the hard-trodden ground, pro- 
ceeded to broil venison, roast nuts, and parch corn. 
While eating they kept up an incessant jabbering, 
enough of it being understood by Mr. Page to prove 


A Deer Hunt. 


that they were on the way to attack the settlement at 
daybreak. 

Of course, upon the discovery of this bloody pur- 
pose, the two whites were overwhelmed by their feel- 
ings, for the first house in the settlement was their 
own, scarcely a mile distant, where Mrs. Page and 
several children would be easy victims. What should 
be done ? To descend from their covert and hurry 
on to give alarm seemed impossible without being 
heard by the Indians. To fire on them would avail but 
little, and would not save the settlement from attack. 

Much smothered whispering passed between father 
and son before a decision was reached. Often they 
sighted their guns at the Indians, almost resolved to 
begin the fray at all hazards. But at length Mr. 
Page, himself unfitted by rheumatism for such an at- 
tempt, reluctantly consented to Jimmy’s urgency, and 
the brave lad undertook the dangerous experiment of 
descending and flying to alarm the settlement. Re- 
moving his heavy home-made boots and leaving his 
gun, he began, with the stealth of a cat, to make his 
way to the ground. 

The savages were not sixty feet distant, and the 
least noise would reach their ears, arouse their suspi- 
cions, and start them on a search. But he was equal 
to the occasion and, after several minutes of intense 
















A Deer Hunt . 


listening, the father knew by a faint rustling that his 
boy had reached the leaf-covered earth. 

But now came a greater peril ; for one can hardly 
walk in the woods without snapping twigs and dis- 
turbing leaves. At the foot of the slope, six or eight 
rods below, ran a wide, shallow brook, and if he 
could reach that in safety the rest of the trip would 
be less difficult. Step by step he felt the way with 
his naked feet, yet not without several noises that 
caused the Indians to grunt, significantly, and the 
father to tremble for the consequences. Once there 
came such a sound from the direction of the brook 
that two or three savages sprang to their guns, but 
Mr. Page made a noise like the snort of a frightened 
deer, drawing their attention to a different course 
and cause, and soon their suspicions subsided. 

At length Jimmy stepped into the cool stream, and 
felt sure of the balance of his task. Still he pro- 
ceeded with the greatest caution until he knew he 
was beyond the hearing of the savages, when he fled 
like the wind to warn the settlement. 

Arriving at home, it took but a moment to arouse 
the family and start them for the blockhouse, or fort. 
Then he sped on to other cabins and gave the alarm, 
until, in a little longer time than it takes to tell it, 
the whole settlement was warned and flocking into 


A Deer Hunt . 


the fort. Men came armed and stern for the fight, 
women with their tender babes and children, frowzy- 
headed and half-clothed as they had tumbled out of 
their trundle-beds. Such alarms and night scenes 
on the borders are among the most thrilling chapters 
in American history. 

The plan of defence adopted by the settlers on 
this occasion was an ambuscade. All the women 
and children were committed to the blockhouse un- 
der the care of half a dozen of the elderly men, while 
the able-bodied fighters concealed themselves in the 
log house of Mr. Page, the first likely to be attacked. 
Long before daybreak this plan was ready for execu- 
tion, the little log fort being securely closed, the de- 
fenceless within it, and some twenty trusty guns 
waiting in the cabin to give the red men a welcome. 

But we must return to the hunter in the tree and 
the unsuspecting foe by the deer-lick. 

After Jimmy left, Mr. Page laid his plans to de- 
scend as soon as the Indians started and, following 
in their rear, take a hand in the fight which he ex- 
pected to occur. Slowly the night passed, the moon- 
light growing fainter until he could no longer see the 
savages. At length, when morning was evidently 
near, he heard them take up the line of march, their 


A Deer Hunt. 


stealthy tread quickly passing away toward the settle- 
ment. It was but an instant’s work for him to clam- 
ber down and follow them, taking, however, a some- 
what different route, so as not to fall into their hands 
if any of them should linger on the way. 

When he came to the clearing, a quarter of a mile 
from his own house, he hid himself and waited for 
circumstances to develop his part in the fray. He 
had not long to wait. Just as it became light 
enough to sight a gun, a musket shot and then sev- 
eral together broke on the silence, but with such a 
smothered sound that his practiced ear knew that 
they were fired from within a house and, hence, were 
the guns of the white men. At the same instant sev- 
eral war-whoops burst on the air, but in a tone indi- 
cating surprise and alarm. 

These sounds explained the ambuscade to Mr. 
Page, and knowing the Indian habit of retreating 
singly and not in company from a defeat, he kept 
sharp watch from his hiding-place and, in a few mo- 
ments, saw a warrior running toward the woods to 
escape. With unerring aim he sent a bullet after the 
fugitive. Hardly had he reloaded when another sim- 
ilar target appeared, and met the same fate. Other 
shots were heard in the direction of the house, and 


A Deer Hunt. 


soon a third savage, hurrying toward the forest, 
passed within range of our hunter’s rifle and was 
stopped forever. 

At length a general silence prevailed, and Mr. 
Page, leaving his hiding-place, crept slyly toward the 
scene of the principal fight. Ere long he met some 
of the neighbors, and together they continued to 
search for the savages. But it was found that they 
had fled from the clearing, all except the slain, eleven 
in number. Not a white person was injured. 

In the afternoon a burial trench was dug on a lit- 
tle knoll on the Page farm, and the bodies of the red 
men solemnly laid therein ; then a log fence was 
built about it, and the little enclosure, still preserved, 
is known to this day as “ The Indian graveyard.” 

Jimmy died in the autumn of 1870, a venerable, 
white-haired patriarch, and at his own request was 
buried in the same enclosure. 


SALLY’S SEVEN-LEAGUE 
SHOES. 


D ID you never hear the story of Sally Colman’s 
shoes ? 

Why, they went far ahead of Jack’s seven-league 
boots ! They walked all the way from Hatfield, Mas- 
sachusetts, to Canada and back, walking straight 
over Lake Champlain without sinking — they were 
bound with silk from Paris and threaded with deer’s 
sinew from the forest, and soled with leather from 
England, and the red serge uppers came by way of 
New Amsterdam, straight from Holland, and with all 
the rough usage to which they were put they have 
lasted two hundred years and are not quite worn out 
yet; indeed it is very possible that they may last 
twice two hundred years longer. Now, is not that 
wonderful ? And the most wonderful thing about the 
story is — that it is quite true. 


Sally's Seveji-Zeague Shoes. 


One bright morning early in September, 167 7, little 
Sally Colman sat on the counter of the Hatfield store 
swinging her feet complacently, and not a little proud 
of the new pair of red shoes which the shopkeeper 
had just fitted to them. She was on the point of 
jumping down and running home, when Mistress De- 
light Crowninshield, a young lady of great conse- 
quence from Boston, who had been visiting relatives 
in Hatfield that summer, inquired of the shopkeeper, 
who was also the postmaster, for her mail. Little 
Sally Colman watched her with great awe, as she re- 
ceived from deferential hands a brown paper parcel 
heavily besplashed with huge red seals. 

“ They are my slippers ! ” exclaimed Mistress De- 
light in a tone of vexation, as she tore open the par- 
cel, “ and just too late for the husking frolic at Be- 
noni Stebbins’ barn ! ” 

She placed the dainty slippers on the counter and 
looked at them regretfully ; and Sally, as her round, 
young eyes noted their French heels and the delicate 
roseate hue of the silk, with the sparkle of the small 
paste-buckles on the instep, thought she had never 
seen anything half so lovely in all her short life, and 
looked down with diminished pride at her own heel- 
less, stout-soled little boots with their red serge 
uppers and waxed-end ties. 


Sally's Seven-league Shoes. 


“ After all,” sighed Mistress Crowninshield, “ per- 
haps it is quite for the best. I should certainly have 
split them dancing, ‘ I’ll be married in my old clothes,’ 
on that rough plank floor, and now I shall nave them 
fresh for Boston, for I am going back to-morrow, and 
who knows what flowery paths they may lead me in ? 
Good bye, little Sally — so you have a pair of new 
shoes, too ! Almost as big as mine, as stout and 
strong as you are, and as red as your own cheeks, 
while mine are only bits of silken flimsiness like myself. 
Their histories, if anybody could write them, will 
doubtless be much like our own lives. Yours will 
probably last long and finally be stubbed out among 
the huckleberries and the dandelions, and mine will 
grow faded and shabby to the squeak of fiddlers and 
the glare of sconces, and they will both be buried in 
Nature’s rag-bag and be alike forgotten.” 

Goodman Plympton, who liked to listen to Mistress 
Delight’s playful chatter, shook his head gravely at 
this speech. 

“ Nay, Mistress Crowninshield,” he said, “ I have 
known the most humble raiment to be treasured care 
fully from generation to generation, long after the 
whilom owners thereof had perished, in memory of 
some noble deed which they had done in their life- 


Sally's Seven-league Shoes. 


time, and which forbade that they should ever be for- 
' gotten.” 

“ We have my grandfather’s soiled gauntlets, for he 
fought with Cromwell,” said Mistress Delight. 



MISTRESS DELIGHT MORALIZES. 


“ And mother has wrapped in fine white paper the 
sprigged veil which my grandmother made and wore,” 
said little Sally. 

“Yea,” replied Goodman Plimpton, “ your grand- 
mother was a French Huguenot. The veil is but a 


Sally's Seven-league Shoes. 


bit of silken flimsiness, of a piece with your slippers, 
Mistress Delight, but it has endured, for it holds 
within it something of the grace and loveliness of the 
wearer and maker, for it is written that though all 
things else vanish away, yet love abideth. And the 
gloves of your grandfather, though rough and un- 
comely, yet speak a stout heart and noble deeds, 
and these cannot die, fair Mistress Delight.” 

Delight Crowninshield went to Boston, and the 
peach-blossom tinted slippers graced her feet at all of 
the few merry-makings in which the prim little town 
indulged. At one of these she met a young French- 
man from Quebec, an officer under the great Count 
Fontenac, who was in Boston on business of his com- 
mand. This officer thought he had never seen any- 
one as beautiful as Delight Crowinshield, and during 
his stay in Boston he was constantly at her side. 

One day as they were walking in Frog Lane, now 
Boylston street, Delight found that she had lost one 
of her paste shoe-buckles, and that she would soon 
lose the slipper also, if it were not replaced. 

They stepped into a shop, and the Frenchman 
bought a buckle and, dropping on one knee, placed 
Delight’s little foot on the other while he fastened 
the slipper snugly for her. But Boston mud in Frog 
Lane then was quite as bad as Boston mud in Boyl- 


Sally s Seven-league Shoes. 


ston street now, and when Delight removed her foot 
the print of her sole was startlingly visible on the 
French officer’s fine white broadcloth knee-breeches. 



IN FROG LANE, BOSTON. 


“ I fear me it will not come off,” said Delight, rue- 
fully. 

“Then let it remain,” replied the gallant French- 
man. “ I shall guard it as the proudest decoration I 
possess until the day that I can claim little foot and 
little body as my own.” 

Wooings were rather more stately and lengthy things 



ALL THE WAY 


TO CANADA. 
































Sally's Seven-league Shoes. 


in those days than now, and the French officer was 
obliged to go back to Quebec wearing a new pair of 
knee-breeches, the stained ones folded away in his 
chest, and only the vague assurance that he might 
claim Mistress Delight as his bride when it was 
plainly proved that he deserved her. 

He had scafcely gone when very sorrowful news 
was heard from Hatfield. The Indians had made a 
descent upon the town, had burned, and pillaged, and 
murdered, and carried away captive. Little Sally 
Colman’s mother was killed and Sally herself carried 
to Canada. 

Poor little Sally ! She had been rudely waked up 
that chill autumn morning by glare of fire and shrieks 
and horrid yells , but as she was dragged out of the 
burning house she caught at the objects dearest to 
her heart — her new red shoes. Many a weary mile 
the little captive trudged meekly, uncomplainingly, 
until the heart of even her Indian captor was touched, 
and he lifted her to his shoulders as they strode 
through the thick underbrush. 

Often the straggling band would be separated, and 
then they kept near each other by uttering hideous 
noises; hooting like screech-owls, or howling like 
wolves. When Sally heard these sounds she would 
start with fright, and cling to Painted Arrow’s neck ; 


Sally's Seven-league Shoes. 


until the savage, seeing how she trusted in him for 
protection, answered her confidence with every kind- 
ness in his power to grant. 

When they climbed the steep mountains he placed 
her on one of the horses behind one of the two ugly- 
faced squaws who accompanied the party, and when 
she trembled with the quivering of the frail birch- 
bark canoe, in which they crossed the Connecticut, 
he leaped into the deadly-cold water and followed her, 
swimming by its side and steadying it now and then 
with his hand. 

They crossed the river several times, keeping it be- 
tween them and the English settlements as they trav- 
elled northward. The Indians hunted as they went, 
and Painted Arrow always shared his portion with 
little Sally, who learned to consider a roasted bear's 
paw a great delicacy. Once they had huckleberries 
which the squaws gathered ; but in getting them the 
squaws lost Benoni Stebbins, whom they had taken 
with them to carry the full baskets, and Benoni, mak- 
ing his way back to Hatfield, told their friends at 
home of their sufferings and put stout-hearted pur- 
suers upon their track. 

The Indians toiled over the Green Mountains and 
reached Lake Champlain only to find it frozen. Here 
they made sledges, and Painted Arrow placed Sally 


Sally’s Seven-league Shoes. 


and little Samuel Russell, who had been taken cap- 
tive at Deerfield, on one of these and tucking them in 
with skins and his own blanket drew them over the 
ice. But in spite of his care the boy died, and when 
they reached Chamblee some of the more cruel In- 
dians burned Goodman Plympton at the stake. 

It was Christmas time when they reached Sorel, a 
French garrison on the St. Lawrence river, and here 
Sally and the other captives were sold as slaves to the 
French settlers. The French masters were kinder to 
them than their Indian ones had been, and Sally at- 
tended the Christmas service at the little Jesuit church, 
thankful at heart that the perilous journey was ac- 
complished. 

After service there was a Christmas dinner such as 
Sally had never tasted, for her master, Jean Poitevin, 
had been a prince of cooks in his native land, and he 
donned a white apron and paper cap and served up a 
dinner that would have done honor to a Parisian res- 
taurant. In the first place there was a delicious soup 
made of the legs and head of a rooster, an onion, a 
carrot cut in fancy pieces, a bouquet of different kinds 
of herbs, and a piece of garlic. Then there was 
gibelotte de lapin , a rabbit stewed in a delicious black 
sauce. This was accompanied by blocks of bread 
cut from a leaf about as long as Jean Poitevin’s arm, 


Sally's Seven-league Shoes. 

strings by deer-sinews, and Madame Poitevin bound 
the worn edge with a ribbon which she had brought 
with her from France. Then she took out her lace 
all around him, big ones tucked under his wings and 
a button-hole-knot of them on his breast. After this 
Sally helped Madam Poitevin to clear away the meats. 

Next came the rooster served with little mushrooms 
and the family attacked the dessert which had all along 
ornamented the central part of the table, and con- 
sisted of a temple of maccaroons marvellously iced 
and decorated, six little pots of six different kinds of 
preserves, and some very black coffee. 

Poor little Sally ! The kindness of her new owners 
was quite as bad for her as the severity of the Indi- 
ans, and the varied bill of fare, after her scanty diet 
of bear’s-paws and acorns, made her very ill, Madame 
Poitevin nursed her very kindly, and mended her little 
red shoes, which had become very ragged with the 
long march. The Indians had replaced the shoe- 
pillow, and Sally, as she watched the growth of the 
frost-like sprays, thought of her grandmother's 
sprigged veil which lasted so long, and of Goodman 
Plympton’s words — “ Love endureth.” By her lov- 
ing ways and gentle, obedient behavior she won the 
Poitevins’ hearts ; but in spite of their kindness the 


Sally's Seven-league Shoes. 

tears would often well to her eyes, and she would 
sob : 

“Father, father, shall I ever see you and dear old 
Hatfield again ? ” 

And ever since the return of Benoni Stebbins, 
Sally’s father and the good Hatfield people generally 
had been doing their best for the rescue of their kid- 
napped neighbors. Benjamin Wait and Stephen 
Jennings, whose wives had been carried away, were 
most forward of all. They went to Albany and 
tried to obtain soldiers to follow the Indians. But 
instead of being helped they were hindered, for 
the Dutch and Yankees were not very friendly at 
this time, and they were thrown into prison for a 
while, so that it was not until December that these 
two brave men, with only a friendly Mohawk Indian 
for a guide, set out for Canada. 

When Delight Crowninshield heard of this expe- 
dition it struck her that perhaps she could do some- 
thing to help it along, and seizing her father’s stubby 
goose-quill, she wrote the following quaint letter to 
the French officer who had carried away the print of 
her small foot on his knee and heart : 

Resp’d Sir : There has been an incursion of ye barbarous 
savages who have captivated many of ye people of Hatfield 
leading them away to Canada. Certain of our people, Benjamin 


Sally's Seven-league Shoes. 

Wait and Stephen Jenning, are now on their way to Quebec to 
obtain the deliverance of the same, which if thou canst effect 
or aid through thy influence with thy master, the great Governor 
Fontinac, thou mayest make any demand upon my kindness 
which thou seest fit. In witness whereof I hereto set my hand 
and seal this 15th day of November, 1676. 

Df.light Crowninshield. 

The seal which the little witch affixed was two 
drops of black sealing wax, artfully managed to re- 
semble the print of a slipper. 

This was enough. When the Hatfield ambassadors 
reached Quebec they were brought at once before 
Fontinac, and the release of all the captives ordered. 
A guard of French soldiers was also granted to con- 
vey them safely to Hatfield. 

They set out on their homeward journey the middle 
of April and arrived in the early summer, little Sally 
still wearing the remnants of her seven-league shoes 
— two very worn soles with little of the scarlet uppers 
and a frayed morsel of French ribbon left, each cling- 
ing to the ankle only by a string of stout deer’s sinew. 

The young French officer, who you may be sure 
formed one of the guard, quickly made an exchange 
of prisoners, for though he returned Sally to her 
home, he carried Delight back with him to Quebec in 
a far more “ captivated ” condition than any of the 


Sally's Seven-league Shoes. 


prisoners taken by the Indians. And Madame De- 
light’s first wifely duty was to scour long and ear- 
nestly a spot of Boston mud left on a pair of her 
husband’s white knee-breeches. But the mud had 
been left untouched so long that it never thoroughly 
came out; and the gallant French officer told the 
story of the half effaced footprint many times amidst 



the applause of his comrades and even of Count 
Fontenac himself. 

You can see one of Sally’s red shoes to-day in the 
museum of the Memorial Association at Deerfield — 
the little shoe that trudged to Canada and back, and 
has lasted, unlike most children’s shoes, over two hun- 
dred years. The other is in the collection at the Old 
South Church in Boston, and was referred to in the 
Wide Awake for July, 1879, m an article entitled 
“ The Children’s Hour at the Old South.” 


Sally's Seven-league Shoes. 


That “Love endureth,” though slipper-prints fade 
and shoes wear out, and that patient submission will 
conquer in the end, is the lesson of Sally’s little 
shoes. 


THE LOST DIAMOND SNUFF 
BOX. 



HE grand old kingdom of England, in the 


-L course of the mossy centuries you can count 
over its head, has had its times of gloom and de- 
pression at dangers that looked near, and its times 
of shouting and rejoicing over dangers its brave men 
have driven away quite out of sight again. 

One of the deepest seasons of gloom was when the 
French Emperor, Napoleon, had conquered one coun- 
try after another, until there was scarcely anything 
but England left to attack ; and one of the proudest 
times of rejoicing was when the “ Iron Duke ” Wel- 
lington, and the bluff old Prussian, Bliicher, met him 
at Waterloo, defeated his armies and drove him from 
the field. There were bonfires, and bell-ringings 
then, and from that day onward England loved and 
cherished every man who had fought at Waterloo — 


The Lost Diamond Snuff Box. 

from the Iron Duke himself down to the plainest 
private, every one was a hero and a veteran. 

In one of the humblest houses of a proud noble- 
man’s estate, a low, whitewashed cottage, one of these 
veterans lived not so very many years ago. He had 
fought by his flag in one of the most gallant regi- 
ments until the last hour of the battle, and then had 
fallen disabled from active service for the rest of his 
life. 

That did not seem to be of so very great conse- 
quence, though, just now ; for peace reigned in the 
land, and with his wife and two beautiful daughters 
to love, his battles to think over, and his pension to 
provide the bread and coffee, the old soldier was as 
happy as the day was long. It made no difference 
that the bread and the coffee were both black, and 
the clothes of the veteran were coarse and seldom 
new. 

“ Ho, Peggy ! ” he used to say to his wife, “ my 
cloak is as fine as the one the Iron Duke wore when 
they carried me past him just as the French were 
breaking; and as for the bread, only a veteran 
knows how the recollection of victory makes every- 
thing taste sweet ! ” 

But it seemed as if the old soldier’s life was going 
to prove like his share in that great day at Waterloo 


The Lost Diamond Snuff Box . 

— success and victory till the end had nearly come, 
and then one shot after another striking him with 
troubles he could never get over. 

The first came in the midst of the beautiful sum- 
mer days, when the bees droned through the delicious 
air, the rose-bush was in full bloom, and the old 
soldier sat in the cottage door revelling in it all. 
A slow, merciless fever rose up through the soft air — 
it did not venture near the high ground where the 
castle stood, but it crept noiselessly into the white- 
washed cottage, one night, and the soldier’s two 
daughters were stricken down. This was the begin- 
ning of terrible trouble to the veteran of Waterloo. 
Not that he minded watching, for he was used to 
standing sentry all night, and as for nursing, he had 
seen plenty of the hospital ; but to see his daughters 
suffering — that was what he could not bear ! 

And worst of all, between medicines and necessa- 
ries for the sick, the three months’ pension was quite 
used up, and when the old soldier’s nursing had pulled 
through the fierceness of the fever, there was nothing 
but black bread left in the house — and black bread 
was almost the same as no bread at all to the dainty 
appetites the fever had left ; and that was what he had 
to think of, and think of, as he satin the cottage door. 

“ Bah ! ” said the old soldier, with something more 


The Lost Diamond Snuff Box. 

like a groan than was ever heard, from him while his 
wounds were being. dressed, “I could face all the ar 
mies of Napoleon better than this ! ” 

And he sat more and more in the cottage door, as 
if that could leave the trouble behind ; but it stood 
staring before him, all the same, till it almost shut the 
rosebush and the bees out of sight. But one morn- 
ing a tremendous surprise came to him like a flash 
out of the sky ! He heard the sound of galloping 
troops, and he pricked up his ears, for that always 
made him think of a cavalry charge. 

“ Who goes there ? ” he cried ; but without answer- 
ing his challenge the sound came nearer and nearer, 
and a lackey in full livery dashed up to the door, and 
presented him with a note sealed with the blood-red 
seal of the castle arms. It was an invitation to dine 
at the castle with a company of noblemen and officers 
of the army. His lordship, who had also fought at 
Waterloo, had just learned that a comrade was living 
on his estate, and made haste to do him honor, and 
secure a famous guest for his dinner party. 

The old soldier rose up proudly, and gave the 
lackey a military salute. 

“ Tell his lordship,” he said, “ that I shall report my- 
self at head-quarters, and present my thanks for the 
honor he has done me.” 


The Lost Diamond Snuff Box. 

The lackey galloped off, and the veteran pushed 
his chair over with his wooden leg, and clattered 
across the cottage floor. 

“ Ho, Peggy ! ” he cried, “ did I not say that luck 
comes and trouble flies if you only face the enemy 
long enough ? This is the beginning of good things, 
I tell you ! A hero of Waterloo, and fit to dine with 
lords and generals, will certainly have other good for- 
tune coming to him, till he can keep his wife and 
daughters like princesses. Just wait a bit and you 
shall see ! ” and he turned hastily away, for his heart 
came up in his throat so that he could not speak. 

All the rest of that day he sat in the door, brushing 
and darning and polishing his stained uniform. It 
had lain abandoned on the shelf for many a year, 
but before night every button was shining like gold, 
the scarlet cloth was almost fresh once more, and the 
old soldier, wrapped in his faithful cloak, was making 
his way joyfully across the heathery moors to the 
castle quite at the other side. 

But when he had fairly reached it, and the servant 
had shown him into the drawing-room, his heart al- 
most failed him for a moment. Such splendor he 
had never seen before — a thousandth part would 
have bought health and happiness for the dear ones 


The Lost Diamond Snuff Box. 

he had left with only his brave goodbye and a fresh 
rose-bud to comfort them ! 

However, what with the beautiful ladies of the 
castle gathering round him to ask questions about the 
battle, and with a seat near his lordship’s right hand 
at dinner, he soon plucked up again, and began to 
realize how delightful everything was. But that was 
the very thing that almost spoiled the whole again, 
for when he saw his plate covered with luxuries and 
delicacies more than he could possibly eat, the 
thought of the black bread he had left at the cottage 
brought the tears rushing to his eyes. 

But, “ Tut ! ” he said to himself in great dismay, 
“ what an ungrateful poltroon his lordship will think 
he has brought here ! ” and he managed to brush them 
off while no one was looking. 

It was delicious,. though, in spite of everything, and 
after a while the wine began to flow — that warmed 
his very heart — and then he heard his lordship call- 
ing to a servant to bring him something from his pri- 
vate desk, saying : 

“ Gentlemen, I am about to show you the proudest 
treasure I possess. This diamond snuff-box was pre- 
sented to me by the stout old Bliicher himself, in re- 
membrance of service I was able to perform at 
Waterloo. Not that I was a whit worthier of it than 



“o, THE DEAR ONES AT HOME!” 





























































































































The Lost Diamond Sfiuff-Box. 

the brave fellows under my command — understand 
that ! ” 

How the diamonds glistened and gleamed as the 
box was passed from hand to hand ! As if the thick- 
est cluster of stars you ever saw, could shine out in 
the midst of a yellow sunset sky, and the colors of 
the rainbow could twinkle through them at the same 
time ! It was superb, but then that was nothing com- 
pared to the glory of receiving it from Bliicher ! 

Then there was more wine and story-telling, and at 
last some one asked to look at the snuff-box again. 

“ Has any one the snuff-box at present ? ” asked 
his lordship, rather anxiously, for as he turned to 
reach it no snuff-box was to be seen. 

No one said “ yes,” for everyone was sure he had 
passed it to his neighbor, and they searched up and 
down the table with consternation in their faces, for 
the snuff-box could not have disappeared without 
hands, but to say so was to touch the honor of gentle- 
men and soldiers. 

At last one of the most famous officers rose from 
his seat : 

“ My lord, he said, “ a very unlucky accident 
must have occurred here. Some one of us must have 
slipped the box into his pocket unconsciously, mis- 
taking it for his own. I will take the lead in search- 


The Lost Diamond Snuff-Box. 

ing mine, if the rest of the company will follow ! ” 

“ Agreed ! ” said the rest, and each guest in turn 
went to the bottom of one pocket after another, but 
still no snuff-box, and the distress of the company in- 
creased. The old soldier’s turn came last, and with 
it came the surprise. With burning cheeks and arms 
folded closely across his breast he stood up and con- 
fronted the company like a stag at bay. 

“ No ! ” he exclaimed, “ no one shall search my 
pockets ! Would you doubt the honor of a soldier ? ” 

“ But we have all done so,” said the rest, “ and 
every one knows it is the merest accident at the 
most.” But the old soldier only held his arms the 
tighter, while the color grew deeper in his face. In 
his perplexity his lordship thought* of another expe- 
dient. 

“ We will try another way, gentlemen,” he said, “ I 
will order a basket of bran to be brought, and pro- 
pose that each one in turn shall thrust his hand into the 
bran. No one shall look on, and if we find the box 
at last, no one can guess whose hand placed it 
there.” 

It was quickly done, and hand after hand was 
thrust in, until at last came the old soldier’s turn once 
more. But he was no where to be seen. 


The Lost Diamond S?inff-Box. 

Then, at last the indignation of the company broke 
forth. 

“ A soldier, and a hero of Waterloo, and willing to 
be a thief ! ” and with their distress about the affair, 
and his lordship’s grief at his loss, the evening was 
entirely spoiled. 

Meantime the old soldier, with his faithful cloak 
wrapped closely round him once more, was fighting 
his way through the sharp winds and over the moors 
again. But a battle against something a thousand 
times sharper and colder was going on in his breast. 

“ A thief ! ” he was saying over and over to himself, 
“ me, who fought close to the side of the Iron Duke ! 
And yet, can I look one of them in the face and tell 
him he lies ? ” 

The walk that had been gone over so merrily was 
a terrible one to retrace, and when the cottage was 
reached, instead of the pride and good luck the poor 
invalids had been watching for, a gloom deadlier than 
the fever followed him in. He sat in the doorway 
as he used, but sometimes he hung his head on his 
breast, and sometimes started up and walked proudly 
about, crying — 

“ Peggy ! I say no one shall call me a thief ! I am 
a soldier of the Iron Duke ! ” 

But they did call him a thief, though, for a very 


The Lost Diamond Snuff-Box. 

strange thing, after his lordship had sorrowfully or- 
dered the cottage and little garden spot to be searched 
no box was found, and the gloom and the mystery 
grew deeper together. 

Good nursing could not balance against trouble like 
this; the beautiful daughters faded and died, the 
house was too gloomy to stay inside, and if he es- 
caped to the door, he had to hear the passers say — 

“ There sits the soldier who stole the Bliicher dia- 
monds from his host ! ” 

And as if this was not enough, one day the sound 
of hoofs was heard again, and a rider in uniform clat- 
tered up to the door saying : 

“ Comrade, I am sent to tell you that your pension 
is stopped ! His Majesty cannot count a thief any 
longer a soldier of his ! ” 

After this the old soldier hardly held up his head 
at all, and his hair, that had kept black as a coal all 
these years, turned white as the moors when the win- 
ter snows lay oh them. 

“ Though that is all the same, Peggy,” he used to 
say, “ for it is winter all the year round with rne ! If 
I could only die as the old year does ! That would be 
the thing ! ” 

But long and merciless as the winter is, spring does 


The Lost Diamond Snuff-Box. 

come at last, if we can but live and fight our way 
through the storms and cold. 

One night a cry of fire roused all the country-side. 
All but the old soldier. He heard them say the castle 
was burning, but what was that to him ? Nothing 
could burn away the remembrance that he had once 
been called a thief within its walls ! But the next 
morning he heard a step — not a horse’s hoof this 
time, but a strong man walking hastily towards him. 

“ Where is the veteran of Waterloo ? ” asked his 
lordship’s voice, and when the old soldier stepped 
forward, he threw his arms about his neck with tears 
and sobs. 

“ Comrade,” he said, “ come up to the castle ! The 
snuff-box is found, and I want you to stand in the 
very room where it was lost while I tell everyone 
what a great and sorrowful wrong a brave and honest 
soldier has suffered at my hands ! ” 

It did not take many words to explain. In the 
first alarm of fire the butler had rushed to the plate- 
closet to save the silver. 

“ Those goblets from the high shelf ! Quick ! ” he 
said, to the footman who was helping him, and with 
the haste about the goblets something else came 
tumbling down. 

“ The lost diamond snuff-box ! ” cried the butler. 


The Lost Diamond Snuff-Box. 

“ That stupid fellow I dismissed the day it disap- 
peared, must have put it there and forgotten all about 
it J ” 

The fire was soon extinguished, but not a wink of 
sleep could his lordship get until he could make rep- 
aration for the pitiful mistake about the box ; and 
once more the old soldier made his way across the 
moors, even the wooden leg stepping proudly as he 
went along, though now and then, as the old feeling 
came over him, his white head would droop for a 
moment again. 

The servants stood aside respectfully as he entered 
the castle, and they and the other guests of that un- 
lucky day gathered round him while his lordship told 
them how the box had been found and how he could 
not rest until forgiven by the brave hero he had so 
unjustly suspected of wrong. 

“ And now/’ said the company, “ will you not tell 
us one thing more ? Why did you refuse to empty 
your pockets, as all the rest were willing to do ? ” 

“ Because,” said the old soldier sorrowfully, “ be- 
cause I was a thief, and I could not bear that anyone 
should discover it ! All whom I loved best in the 
world were lying sick at home, starving for want of 
the delicacies I could not provide, and I felt as if my 
heart would break to see my plate heaped with luxu- 


The Lost Diamond Snuff-Box. 


ries while they had not so much as a taste ! I thought 
a mouthful of what I did not need might save them, 
and when no one was looking I slipped some choice 
bits from my plate between two pieces of bread and 
made way with them into my pocket. I could not let 
them be discovered for a soldier is too proud lo beg, 
but oh, my lord, he can bear being called a thief all 
his life better than he can dine sumptuously while 
there is only black bread at home for the sick and 
weak whom he loves ! ” 

'Fears came streaming from the old soldier’s listen- 
ers by this time, and each vied with the other in heap- 
ing honors and gifts in place of the disgrace suffered 
so long.; but all that was powerless to make up for 
the past. 

Two good lessons may be learned from the story : 
Never believe any one guilty who is not really proved 
to be so. Never let false shame keep you from 
confessing the truth, whether trifling or of importance. 


CHOOSING “ABE” CAPTAIN. 


W HEN the Black Hawk war broke out in Illi- 
nois about 1832, young Abraham Lincoln 
was living at New Salem, a little village of the class 
familiarly known at the west as “ one-horse, towns,” 
and located near the capital city of Illinois. 

He had just closed his clerkship of a year in a 
feeble grocery, and was the first to enlist under the 
call of Governor Reynolds for volunteer forces to go 
against the Sacs and Foxes, of whom Black Hawk 
was chief. 

By treaty these Indians had been removed west of 
the Mississippi into Iowa ; but, thinking their old 
hunting-grounds the better, they had recrossed the 
river with their war paint on, causing some trouble, 
and a great deal of alarm among the settlers. Such 
was the origin of the war ; and the handful of govern- 


Choosing “ Abe ” Captain. 


ment troops stationed at Rock Island wanted help. 
Hence the State call. 

Mr. Lincoln was twenty-three years old at that 
time, nine years older than his adopted state. The 
country was thinly settled, and a company of ninety 
men who could be spared from home for military 
service had to be gathered from a wide district. 
When full, the company met at the neighboring 
village of Richland to choose its officers. In those 
days the militia men were allowed to select their 
leaders in their own way ; and they had a very pe- 
culiar mode of expressing their preference for cap- 
tains. For then, as now, there were almost always 
two candidates for one office. 

They would meet on the green somewhere, and at * 
the appointed hour, the competitors would step out 
from the crowds on the opposite sides of the ground, 
and each would call on all the “ boys ” who wanted 
him for captain to fall in behind him. As the line 
formed, the man next the candidate would put his 
hands on the candidate’s shoulder ; the third man 
also in the same manner to the second man ; and so 
on to the end. And then they would march and 
cheer for their leader like so many wild men, in order 
to win over the fellows who didn’t seem to have 
a choice, or whose minds were sure to run after 


Choosing “Abe” Captain. 

the greater noise. When all had taken sides, the 
man who led the longer line, would be declared 
captain 

Mr Lincoln never outgrew the familiar nickname, 
“ Abe,” but at that time he could hardly be said to 
have any other name than “ Abe ; ” in fact he had 
emerged from clerking in that little corner grocery 
as “ Honest Abe.” * He was not only liked, but 
loved, in the rousrh fashion of the frontier by all who 
knew him. He was a gqod hand at gunning, fishing, 
racing, wrestling and other games ; he had a tall and 
strong figure ; and he seemed to have been as often 
“ reminded of a little story ” in ’32 as in ’62. And 
the few men not won by these qualities, were won 
and held by his great common sense, which re- 
strained him from excesses even in sports, and. made 
him a safe friend. 

It is not singular therefore that though a stranger 
to many of the enlisted men, he should have had his 
warm friends who at once determined to make him 
captain. 

But Mr. Lincoln hung back with the feeling, he 
said, that if there was any older and better estab- 
lished citizen whom the “ boys ” had confidence in, 
it would be better to make such a one captain. His 
poverty was even moTe marked than his modesty ; 


Choosing “Abe” Captain . 


and for his stock in education about that time, he 
wrote in a letter to a friend twenty-seven years, 
later : 

“ I did not know much ; still, somehow, I could 
read, write, and cipher to the rule of three, but that 
was all.” 

That, however, was up to the average education of 
the community ; and having been clerk in a country 
grocery he was considered an educated man. 

In the company Mr. Lincoln had joined, there 
was a dapper little chap for whom Mr. Lincoln had 
labored as a farm hand a year before, and whom he 
had left on account of ill treatment from him. This 
man was eager for the captaincy. He put in his 
days and nights “ log-rolling ” among his fellow 
volunteers ; said he had already smelt gunpowder 
in a brush with Indians, thus urging the value of 
experience ; even thought he had a ‘ f martial bear- 
ing;” and he was very industrious in getting those 
men to join the company who would probably vote 
for him to be captain. 

Muster-day came, and the recruits met to organ- 
ize. About them stood several hundred relatives 
and other friends. 

The little candidate was early on hand and busily 
bidding for votes. He had felt so confident of the 


Choosing “Abe” Captain. 


office in advance of muster-day, that he had rum- 
maged through several country tailor-shops and got 
a new suit of the nearest approach to a captain’s uni- 
form that their scant stock could furnish. So there 
he was, arrayed in jaunty cap, and a swallow-tailed 
coat with brass buttons. He even wore fine boots, and 
moreover had them blacked — which was almost a 
crime among a country crowd of that day. 

Young Lincoln took not one step to make himself 
captain ; and not one to prevent it. He simply put 
himself “ in the hands of his friends,” as the politi- 
cians say. He stood and quietly watched the trouble 
others were borrowing over the matter as if it were 
an election of officers they had enlisted for, rather 
than for fighting Indians. But after all a good deal 
depends in war, on getting good officers. 

As two o’clock drew near, the hour set for making 
captain, four or five of young Lincoln’s most zealous 
friends with a big stalwart fellow at the head edged 
along pretty close to him, yet not in a way to excite 
suspicion of a “conspiracy.” Just a little bit be- 
fore two, without even letting “ Abe ” himself know 
exactly “ what was up,” the big fellow stepped direct- 
ly behind him, clapped his hands on the shoulders 
before him, and shouted as only prairie giants can, 
“ Hurrah for Captain Abe Lincoln ! ” and plunged 


Choosmg “ Abe ” Captain. 


his really astonished candidate forward into a 
march. 

At the same instant, those in league with him also 
put hands to the shoulders before them, pushed, and 
took up the cheer, “ Hurrah for Captain Abe Lin- 
coln ! ” so loudly that there seemed to be several hun- 
dred already on their side ; and so there were, fo r 
the outside crowd was also already cheering for 
“ Abe.” 

This little “ ruse ” of the Lincoln boys ” proved 
a complete success. “ Abe” had to march, whether 
or no, to the music of their cheers ; he was truly “in 
the hands of his friends ” then, and couldn’t get away ; 
and it must be said he didn’t seem to feel very bad 
over the situation. The storm of cheers and the 
sight of tall Abraham (six feet and four inches) at 
the head of the marching column, before the fussy 
little chap in brass buttons was quite ready, caused a 
quick stampede even among the boys who intended 
to vote for the little fellow. One after another they 
rushed for a place in “ Captain Abe’s ” line as though 
to be first to fall in was to win a prize. 

A few rods away stood that suit of captain’s clothes 
alone, looking smaller than ever, “ the starch all 
taken out of ’em,” their occupant confounded, and 


Choosing “Abe” Captain. 


themselves for sale. “Abe’s” old “boss” said he 
was “ astonished,” and so he had good reason to be, 
but everybody could see it without his saying so. 
His “ style” couldn’t win among the true and shrewd, 
though unpolished “ boys ” in coarse garments. They 
saw right through him. 

“Buttons,” as he became known from that day, 
was the last man to fall into “ Abe’s” line ; he said 
he’d make it unanimous. 

But his experience in making “ Abe ” Captain 
made himself so sick that he wasn’t “ able ” to move 
when the company left for the “ front,” though he soon 
grew able to move out of the procession. 

Thus was “ Father Abraham,” so young as twenty 
three, chosen captain of a militia company over him 
whose abused, hired-hand he had been. It is little 
wonder that in ’59 after three elections to the State 
Legislature and one to Congress, Mr. Lincoln should 
write of this early event as “ a success which gave 
me more pleasure than any I have had since.” Tne 
war was soon over with but little field work for the 
volunteers ; but no private was known to complain 
that “ Abe ” was not a good captain. 


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